


In the Darkness is Born the Dawn

by Aggie2011



Series: Darkness to Dawn Universe [9]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Post-Savoy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Savoy, pre-Savoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-02-20 15:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 123,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13149633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: Savoy, and the weeks that followed, were the darkest days of Aramis' life. But they say the night is darkest before the dawn and Aramis finds his light in the very thing that he swore never to trust again - brotherhood. *First story of the Darkness to Dawn Universe. Aramis Centered. Pre-Series. No Slash.*





	1. Everyone Needs Someone Beside 'Em

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, it would never have been cancelled and there would have been way more episodes about Aramis ;)
> 
> Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
> 
> So I've been promising this monster fic for ages now. It stands at well over 120,000 words and is broken into 17 rather lengthy chapters. Many of you are growing familiar with the universe I'm building with the Musketeers Fandom - from this point called the Darkness to Dawn Universe. This is the story that will launch that universe for real. Most of the little fics I've done leading up to now for the monthly challenge fit into this so you have a bit of a taste of how I'm writing the characters.
> 
> This is the story of Savoy - but it is also the story of much more than that. This, in many ways, is the beginning for the three men, and later four, that we all love so much.
> 
> I have incorporated as much of the show cannon that I can while taking my own liberties to construct character backgrounds and build a rich history for them (I hope). But unashamedly, Aramis is my focus. He's my favorite and this universe will be mostly about him. However, the brotherhood between him and the others - most especially his brotherhood with Porthos - is one of my favorite things I've ever found in a fandom so that is a strong undercurrent throughout.
> 
> Enough from me, though, if you want to know more, I'm building a tumblr page dedicated to this universe, just as I have done for my Avengers Universe. You can find it from a search for the name of the universe or through a link on my main blog under the name 'aggie2011whoop'.
> 
> Special thanks to my amazing beta and friend Arlothia, who has worked steadfastly on this fic - affectionately nicknamed 'the monster' - for some time now. Her support and friendship mean the world to me and I'm so glad to have her on my DDU team. Without her, there would undoubtedly be several more commas than necessary within this fic ;)
> 
> I do use a song to inspire the chapter titles, if you guess it in a review/comment then I'll give you a special shout out!
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

 

 

_I am smiling because you are my brother. I am laughing because there is nothing you can do about it!  
_ _**Unknown** _

* * *

_March 12, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Garrison, Paris_

* * *

The rising sun cut through the window, shedding unwelcome light on the sleeping figure in the room's only occupied bed. Porthos winced, growling low in his throat as he was pulled, prematurely in his opinion, from sleep.

As he often did this time of morning, he found himself contemplating fashioning himself a curtain of some sort to save him from these unwanted early wakings. The idea was dismissed nearly as soon as it was considered as he had only been within the regiment, and assigned to these quarters, for a bit over a month. He'd only just started to really think of this room as  _his_  and the thought of adding such a personal touch, no matter how utilitarian, still seemed beyond his rights.

Besides, he knew it wouldn't always be entirely just his own. Another bed stood empty across the room. One day, he knew, that bed would be filled with another. The regiment had once been small enough – and therefore the Garrison large enough – to supply private quarters for each man. But as their numbers steadily grew, it had become necessary to shift two men to a room. Some of the others kept apartments in the city to afford themselves some privacy when they wanted it, but Porthos had neither the means nor the inclination to spend his hard earned coin on such an extravagance. Not when the bed here was as good as any that he'd had before. Better, even.

For now, though, the room remained his alone.

He'd thought it odd, in the beginning, that a newly commissioned Musketeer merited his own quarters while a majority of the other seasoned soldiers had been sharing rooms for years now.

It had taken him a remarkably short amount of time to figure out the truth of it.

He'd have to be blind, after all, not to see the looks that followed him; or deaf not to hear the poorly whispered comments that hovered in the air. In the infantry, nothing about him – past, appearance, or otherwise – had mattered much to anyone. He had been there for the same reason as every other man – to fight. But here, amongst the king's elite, things were proving a bit more difficult. Here, his dark skin stood out amongst the rest. Here, his manner of speech, born of his youth in the Court, gave away his lack of station and formal education.

He had not expected to be welcomed with open arms, exactly. That sort of thing would never be his lot in life. But he'd hoped for at least some sort of acceptance of his position here. He'd expected at least an acknowledgement that he had earned his commission in the same manner as every other Musketeer. But so far, he had barely been tolerated.

But there had been  _one_ exception.

As if summoned by his thoughts, there was a sudden banging on his door and a familiar voice rose from the balcony outside.

"Come on, Porthos," Aramis called to him. "I want breakfast!"

Then, without invitation, his door was thrust open. Aramis didn't come  _in_  exactly, though Porthos wouldn't put it past the man to invite himself over the threshold. Instead, he leaned lazily against the doorframe, one boot crossed over the other and his hat perched rakishly on his head.

"Still in bed?" Aramis teased and then tsked mockingly as if Porthos had committed some grievous sin. His mouth was quirked behind his beard in his normal mischievous grin and his dark brown eyes were alight with amusement. "I thought soldiers rose with the sun!"

Porthos rolled his eyes and pushed up to sitting.

"Says the one  _I've_ had to drag from the clutches of some woman or another three times this week to make it to muster on time," he replied with a chuckle. "What's got you up so early? Hmm? Did her father come home?"

Aramis laughed lightly and reached to pull his hat from his head. His long hair was pulled back and tied with a leather band, but that didn't stop him from running his fingers through the wavy strands that had escaped confinement. It was a telling gesture – one Porthos had grown familiar with even after such a short time – that gave away his sheepishness over the situation.

"Her husband, actually. Not to worry, though, brother, I escaped unscathed."

"Husband?" Porthos chuckled. "Misread the situation, did you?"

Aramis grinned wickedly, all hints of sheepishness miraculously vanished, spinning his hat in one hand.

"Not entirely. He wasn't supposed to be home until tomorrow."

Porthos shook his head in exasperated amusement and stood. He moved to the door and pushed Aramis back out onto the balcony. He gave a dramatic sniff and waved Aramis away.

"Go put on a clean shirt," Porthos directed. "I'd tell you what you smell like, but I'm sure you already know," he teased.

Aramis lifted his arm and gave himself a testing sniff. Porthos rolled his eyes again when the marksman immediately smirked.

"I suppose you're right," he admitted. "Wouldn't want to be distracting to the others."

Porthos chuckled.

"See you down there?" he asked even as he stepped back fully into his room.

Aramis waved his hat to indicate his agreement and then started down the walkway towards his own quarters.

Porthos pushed his own door closed again and turned back to face his room with a deep sigh. Aramis would get himself into trouble one day, no doubt, with his tendency to brazenly ignore the bonds of marriage so long as the woman was willing. Who could blame him, though? Porthos was not so innocent of the same crime when the opportunity was there.

Aramis just seemed more naturally inclined to  _create_  that opportunity for himself.

That thought had Porthos smiling and shaking his head with a chuckle.

Aramis had certainly proven to have a way about him; drawing all around him in like moths to a flame, Porthos being no exception.

Porthos had known, from the moment Treville had assigned him to Aramis for training, that he'd been given a gift. It hadn't been the first time he'd seen Aramis, after all, though he'd not known the Musketeer's name when he'd first seen him three long years ago. But after he had been recruited to the Musketeers and Aramis strode over to him that first day, a wide friendly smile on his face and humor in his gaze, Porthos knew fate had drawn them together for a second time.

Treville had claimed it was because Aramis was his most seasoned Musketeer and Porthos' natural skill warranted the best. But Porthos suspected there had been a bit more to it. Treville was no fool. He knew a man like Porthos would not be easily accepted into the elite ranks, even amongst those as honorable as the Musketeers. But Aramis was not like the rest.

" _Aramis knows no strangers,"_ Serge had told him once, in the early days.

And that had certainly proven true.

Porthos had never met a man more open, friendly, and kind than the young marksman. Where the others looked at Porthos with wariness and distrust, Aramis had treated him as if they were the oldest of friends from the beginning.

It had been easy between them, from the moment they met. Their friendship had ignited like a sparking flame, instant and bright, and had only grown stronger over the weeks following Treville plucking Porthos from the battlefield.

He felt sometimes as if he'd known Aramis all his life. If not for him, Porthos could not imagine what life at the Garrison might have been like. Lonely, for certain, as none of the others had bothered to do more than give him their names since he'd been commissioned.

He would forever be grateful for Aramis' friendship and how freely it had been offered. And even if no other Musketeer ever called him friend or brother, Porthos would be content. He had Aramis, and Aramis – with his lively personality, constant attraction to trouble, and daring bravery – had already proven more than enough.

* * *

Aramis pushed into his room and tossed his hat onto his bed, immediately working at loosening his belts. He moved towards Marsac's bed and kicked it to rouse the other man.

"Wake up, Marsac," he called cheerfully. "It's time for breakfast."

Marsac groaned and peered at him over his shoulder.

"You're just getting in?" the other man muttered in confusion as he watched Aramis shed his belts onto the bed and start pulling at his leather doublet.

Aramis shot his friend a wicked smirk and let that be answer enough. He tossed his doublet onto the bed and shrugged out of his braces. He caught a whiff of Margaery's perfume and something a bit more erotic as he stripped off his shirt and couldn't hold back a smirk as he tossed the fabric aside.

"I know what that look means," Marsac chuckled as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Who was it this time?"

"A gentleman would never betray a woman's reputation, Marsac," Aramis replied easily as he dug into the trunk at the foot of his bed for a clean shirt.

"Hmmm," Marsac stood and moved towards the chamber pot. "A married woman, then," he theorized. "I've only ever known you to be cagey when they're married."

Aramis didn't bother to answer  _that_  one way or another as he found a clean shirt and set about redressing himself. Instead, he changed the subject.

"And you?" he asked as he tucked his shirt ends into his trousers. "When last I saw  _you_ , you were mumbling irritably about that fellow who'd mentioned he preferred the pen to the sword."

"Yes, well,  _he_ was a fool," Marsac replied brightly as he fastened his trousers and sat to pull on his boots.

Aramis gave his friend a skeptical glance as he fastened his doublet. Marsac's tendency to let his temper spark over the most trivial of things had often proven…troublesome. He usually kept himself in check, though, so long as he kept his  _drinking_  in check.

"And you didn't take it upon yourself to let him know this?" he prodded warily.

"Aramis," Marsac crooned his name with a chuckle, "what do you take me for?"

The guilty look in his eyes gave it away.

"How bad was it?" Aramis asked with a resigned sigh.

Marsac attempted the charade for a moment longer before shrugging dismissively and clearing his throat.

"I won't be welcome back there for a while," he admitted. "Something about property damage and unprovoked violence."

"Marsac…" Aramis sighed. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How much did you drink last night?"

"Barely anything," Marsac defended as he stood and reached for his tan doublet. "The man would simply not keep his opinions to himself."

"How much?" Aramis asked again, pinning his friend with a firm look.

"Not… Only… Just a bit… A bottle, perhaps two," the other Musketeer admitted dismissively. "But he still had it coming."

Aramis shook his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He should have stayed. Margaery would have forgiven him. He should have known Marsac would start trouble the moment the mousey man with the glasses had started spouting about the brutish, violent nature of men who lived by the sword.

"Besides," Marsac muttered, "I'm surprised you even noticed. You hardly took your eye off the door the entire time you were there even though he  _told_  you he wasn't coming."

Aramis let out a long, annoyed breath and told himself they wouldn't fight about this  _again_ , not before they'd even managed breakfast.

"Speaking of Porthos, he's waiting for me downstairs. Will you join us?" Aramis asked carefully as he finished redressing and reached for his hat. He worried the brim between his fingers as he watched Marsac tighten his sword belt.

"You know I will," his friend muttered.

"Wonderful!" Aramis turned for the door, hoping that would be the end of it.

But Marsac's voice rose after him as he pulled their door open.

"I don't understand your fascination with him, Aramis. When you were assigned to train him, I could forgive it. But you were relieved of that duty two weeks ago."

Aramis felt his shoulders go rigid as he turned back to face his friend. He and Marsac had known each other for years. The other man had been commissioned into the Musketeers before the regiment had even reached its first birthday. Marsac was fine soldier, one of the best Aramis had ever known, and he had a good heart. But since Porthos' arrival, Aramis had seen a side to his closest friend that he did not like.

" _Forgive_  it?" he asked lowly. "You presume I need your  _forgiveness_  for befriending a fellow Musketeer?"

Marsac cleared his throat and shifted his weight.

"That's not what I meant," he defended with a sigh.

"Then what  _did_  you mean?" Aramis asked with a helpless shrug of his shoulders.

"I only meant…" Marsac rubbed at his forehead and moved to join Aramis at the door. "Since he got here, you hardly even spare a moment for anyone else, least of all  _me_. It's as if you've forgotten our friendship all together."

Aramis wilted, the fiery spark of his temper cooling in the face of Marsac's sincerity and tangible hurt.

"I could never 'forget' you, Marsac," he assured. He reached to grip Marsac's shoulder. "You are one of my oldest friends and I hold you as a brother in my heart, you  _know_  this."

Marsac smiled slightly with tentative relief.

" _But_ ," Aramis went on gently, "Porthos is my friend as well and if you would give him half a chance, you would come to see him as I do."

Marsac sighed and didn't reply.

"Come on," Aramis nudged him towards the door. "You're always a grouch before breakfast. Things will look better after some of Serge's porridge."

He laughed as Marsac mimed gagging.

* * *

Porthos made his way towards the refectory, shifting his gaze over the group of Musketeers that already sat at the long table in the yard, eating and chatting amongst themselves in the early morning light. Porthos nodded in greeting, but was not surprised when the gesture went unacknowledged.

Such treatment had become expected. It might have bothered him more if he'd not spent his youth as a child of the Court. They'd have to work a lot harder if they hoped to drive him out of the Garrison.

The refectory was empty save for Serge behind the stove.

"What've you got for me today, Serge?" Porthos greeted the battle veteran with a smile. Serge, one of the precious few who treated him with the same equality he afforded the others, smiled in return.

"Porridge."

Serge slapped a spoonful of brown mush into a bowl and held it out to him.

Porthos had to fight to keep his smile in place.

"Looks wonderful," he managed, unable to prevent his smile from slipping to a grimace. "Don't suppose you've got any fruit back there?" he asked hopefully. The fruit would at least temper the blandness of the porridge.

Serge snorted as if he were a fool for asking and Porthos sighed in resignation.

He turned, sliding onto the nearest chair and tucking into his breakfast with as much enthusiasm as such a meal could warrant. It was a relief the others were eating out in the yard. Then, at least, he couldn't hear their whispers or feel their stares. .

"Serge, old friend, I see you've made my favorite breakfast!"

Porthos looked up at the cheerful words and watched Aramis stride into the room, Marsac trailing behind him.

"Porthos hasn't eaten it all, has he?" Aramis teased as he slapped Porthos' shoulder and reached for the bowl Serge was offering him.

The whole room seemed brighter now with Aramis in it. His cheerful disposition had the innate ability to draw a smile from even the sourest of personalities. The man was like a whirlwind of light, chasing the shadows from every corner whenever he entered a room.

He looked now much as he had outside Porthos' quarters less than an hour ago – though the smell of him had somewhat improved. Dressed in leathers with a brace of pistols hooked to his belt, he looked every part the heroic figure that women swooned over, which, according to some, was close to dashingly perfect.

Though, Porthos thought, it was the  _hat_  that was most memorable. It wasn't that the hat was particularly dramatic, but the marksman's attachment to it set it apart. Always roguishly angled, Aramis' hat was well known through the regiment as something not to be trifled with. Porthos wasn't sure why the man was so fond of it, but if the thing wasn't atop his head, it was almost always in his hand or within easy reach.

Aramis accepted the bowl Serge offered him with a wide smile and inhaled the aroma deeply.

How he managed to keep from gagging at the smell, Porthos would never know.

"Ah," he sighed, a certain twinkle in his eye as he met the old cook's gaze, " _heavenly_. Though nothing could possibly improve on this perfect bowl of porridge, I find myself quite famished this morning. Might you have a bit of fruit hidden away? Perhaps some cheese or bread?"

Porthos could only watch in fascination as Serge afforded the young Musketeer a warm smile. Then, to Porthos' everlasting jealously, Aramis turned away, a plate of fruit, cheese,  _and_  bread in one hand and his bowl of porridge in the other. Porthos turned back to his own bowl with an amused shake of his head.

That was one rumor – amongst the  _many_ – about the charismatic marksman that was undeniably true. Aramis could charm the feathers off a bird if given half a reason. And further, likely convince that bird it could fly just as well without them.

"I don' know how you do it," Porthos commented as Aramis sat down across the table from him. Marsac moved past them to retrieve his own bowl from Serge.

"Porridge, Serge?" he heard Marsac sigh. "Again?"

"You want somethin' else, go somewhere else," Serge replied gruffly.

Porthos couldn't hold back his grin as he looked up to meet Aramis' friendly gaze.

"He won' give none of that to no one else." He jerked his chin at the plate of fruit, bread, and cheese. "Believe me, I've tried."

Though many had attempted such, Porthos had never seen anyone, outside of Aramis, able to sway Serge into such special treatment. Porthos could hear Marsac trying even now, and likely failing just as Porthos had.

Aramis smirked.

"It's all in how you ask, my friend. All in how you ask."

Porthos suspected it had more to do with the long duration of Aramis' friendship with the old war veteran, but who was he to say?

Porthos found a fresh apple arching through the air towards him in the next moment and caught it deftly in his hand. He nodded his thanks silently and Aramis dipped his head in return. Porthos took a large bite from it and watched Marsac slide in to sit on Aramis' other side, consequently as far from Porthos as possible without sitting at a different table entirely.

Porthos watched Marsac reach for a piece of cheese from Aramis' extra plate only to have his fingers nudged away.

"Hands to yourself," Aramis scolded. "I worked hard for this."

Porthos felt Marsac's gaze shift to him and he grinned around his mouth full of fresh apple.

"He got some," Marsac pointed out.

" _He_  didn't try to snatch it from my plate without so much as a  _'please'_ ," Aramis answered easily. But even as he spoke he shifted the plate closer to Marsac so he could have his pick of what was on it. "A  _thank you_  wouldn't be out of order either, you know."

"Please  _and_  thank you,  _mon ami_ ," Marsac grinned, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth.

For a moment all three of them ate in silence.

"How was your evening, Porthos?" Aramis asked suddenly, meeting his gaze over their bowls of porridge. "I didn't see you at the tavern."

Marsac frowned sourly down at his bowl before seeming to force himself to grin.

"Like you were there long enough to see  _anyone_ ," Marsac teased lightly. "I think you only stayed long enough to empty a bottle of wine then you were – how do you always put it? – ' _otherwise engaged'_."

Porthos grinned as Aramis' lips twitched into a smirk.

"I had a late watch at the palace gardens," Porthos answered the original question. He wasn't at all surprised when Aramis' brow arched in surprise.

"Pierre and Jaques had that watch last night."

Aramis was a seasoned Musketeer, had been with the regiment since its beginning. As such, he often stood at Treville's right hand and tended to have a working knowledge of who was posted where at any given time.

"Pierre's sister took ill late in the evening," Porthos shrugged, "I volunteered to take his place."

Porthos was confused when Aramis' expression darkened. His confusion grew when Aramis turned to glare pointedly at Marsac. He was absolutely certain he was missing something when Marsac averted his gaze.

"Did you know about this?" Aramis demanded, voice uncharacteristically sharp.

Porthos looked back and forth between them, brow drawn together in bewilderment.

"Aramis…" Marsac started in a conciliatory tone, but Aramis cut him off with a gesture of his hand.

"Simple question, Marsac. Did. You. Know?"

"Not until he got to the tavern," Marsac admitted.

The tavern? Porthos frowned and watched Aramis mirror the expression.

"I didn't see him," the marksman pointed out.

"He waited until you'd left. He knew you would have known he had duty and asked questions."

Aramis abruptly stood.

"What's wrong?" Porthos finally asked. "What did I miss?"

Aramis glanced at him, dark eyes swirling with a mixture of apology and simmering anger.

"Pierre has no sister. He lied to you."

Aramis said it like it was a personal affront against him. Which, considering Porthos had seen him lie through his teeth to a few Red Guards about missing horses just the other day, it was a bit ironic. He reached out to catch Aramis' wrist as the marksman stepped away from the table.

"Just leave it," he advised. "No harm done."

"He lied to you," Aramis said again, as if it was all the motive he needed to act. "For what? An evening at the tavern?"

"Leave it," he repeated, tightening his hold on Aramis' wrist. "I'm not takin' it to heart. It's done anyway."

Aramis stared at him.

"We don't treat each other like that," the marksman stated firmly, pulling his arm from Porthos' grip. "Not here."

With that, he strode out of the refectory to where Porthos had seen Pierre having breakfast with the others. At that moment, clear as day, Porthos saw the senior Musketeer in Aramis. He saw the man whom all regarded as Treville's unofficial second. It was easy for the others to come to that conclusion when Aramis was often at Treville's right hand and tended to take command when Treville was not around. It was a natural development, born of his length of tenure as a Musketeer and the trust Treville consistently placed in him. Having been one of five founding members of the Musketeer Regiment, hand-picked by Treville himself, Aramis' authority was universally accepted as second only to Treville's. He was respected, despite his youth, and it was understood that when he gave orders they were as unarguable as if Treville himself had spoken them.

And he, more than any of the others Porthos had found, embodied what it was supposed to mean to be a Musketeer. It made sense. Aramis had  _been_  there when the ideals that served as the foundation for the regiment had been conceived.

"I didn't know he'd lied to you," Marsac said suddenly, drawing Porthos' gaze.

The other Musketeer fleetingly met his gaze and then stood.

"He shouldn't have," he added before taking his bowl back to Serge and following Aramis' path to the yard.

Porthos could only stare after him. He hadn't sensed deception in Pierre when he'd been lamenting the news that his sister was ill. He usually prided himself on being a pretty good judge of character, but perhaps in his eagerness to earn some goodwill with the others he'd missed the signs.

Serge appeared at his shoulder and collected Aramis' bowl and then reached for Porthos' empty one. The old cook nodded at the plate of fruit, cheese, and bread.

"Best take some of that out to him. He barely touched this." Serge gestured with Aramis' mostly full bowl.

Porthos nodded and pocketed some bread and a second apple. With a smile at Serge, he headed out to the yard, wondering what exactly he would find. He was surprised to see nothing immediately amiss.

Pierre was still seated amongst the others, but there was an unnatural stillness to his posture that drew Porthos' attention. Aramis stood just behind him, leaning over the other Musketeer's left shoulder with his hand wrapped firmly around his right. Whatever Aramis was saying Pierre was nodding, but his voice was too low for Porthos to hear.

Marsac stood a few steps off Aramis' shoulder, perhaps waiting to see if his intervention would be needed.

The others at the table were busying themselves with their breakfasts, very carefully  _not_  watching the exchange.

Quite suddenly, Aramis straightened.

"Apologize," he ordered succinctly, loud enough for all of them to hear.

Pierre met Porthos' gaze fleetingly and then cleared his throat.

"My apol-"

"Stand up and face him like a man, Pierre," Aramis scolded, stepping back and giving Pierre room to stand. "This is your brother you've deceived. Be glad I'm not making you grovel."

Pierre's neck reddened but he stood without complaint and stepped around the table to face Porthos fully.

"My apologies, Porthos, for my deception. Such behavior was unbefitting a Musketeer and you can trust it will not happen again."

Porthos nodded his acceptance.

"It's forgotten," he allowed.

Pierre nodded in return, met his gaze briefly once more, and then returned to his seat.

"We're Musketeers, gentlemen," Aramis spoke to all of them. "And as such we should hold ourselves to a higher standard. The men within these walls are your brothers and a slight to one is a slight to all, even if that slight comes from within." He looked over all the men at the table, settling his gaze lastly on Pierre. "If I hear of such a thing again, I will take it to the captain."

All of the men, Pierre included, nodded contritely. Aramis nodded in return and his stern expression softened to a warm smile.

"Then the matter is behind us and forgotten."

The tension around the table eased and Aramis moved back towards Porthos. Conversation resumed around the table as if the whole thing hadn't happened at all.

"You didn't have to do that," Porthos pointed out as Aramis came to stand with him. Marsac joined them a moment later, something odd in his expression that Porthos couldn't read.

Aramis arched his brow at Porthos.

"If he had done the same to me, I'd have likely punched him squarely in the nose."

"He'd never have done the same to you," Porthos pointed out.

"Exactly. You deserve no less consideration than I, my brother. And no less than Marsac," he tapped the mentioned man on the chest, "or any of the others. I would have done the same for any of them as well. You are one of us now, a Musketeer, a  _brother_. They will see that in time, but until they do I will happily show them the way."

Porthos couldn't help but feel warmed by the words and found himself smiling. Next to Aramis Marsac was sighing, looking an odd mixture of annoyed and saddened.

Before any more could be said, however, Treville was appearing out of his office and calling for attention for morning muster. Porthos watched Aramis look forlornly back towards the refectory and grinned, producing the bread he'd brought with him.

"Compliments of Serge. He sent a bit of fruit as well," he whispered as he pressed the bread into Aramis' hand even as they moved to stand in line, Aramis between him and Marsac.

Aramis grinned, pressed the bread to his lips, and then gestured with it towards the heavens.

"Bless him… Serge, the patron saint of missed meals and forgetful Musketeers."

* * *

Treville made it to the yard just as the last of the men appeared out of their rooms or through the gate and fell into line. He met Aramis' gaze and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the bulging of the young man's cheeks as he chewed a mouthful of what appeared to be bread – if the crumbs in his beard were anything to go by.

Looking over the rest of the men – totaling only 30 at the moment since the six assigned to overnight duties would not be dismissed until relieved – Treville came to stand before them.

"Laurent, Antoine, Gentry, Pierre, Gustov, Gilles – missives to deliver for each of you," he said.

Treville held out a stack of letters to Aramis who finally finished chewing and stepped out of the line to take them. Treville didn't watch as Aramis distributed the missives to the men, but he thought he caught a bit of a wicked grin as Aramis selected the one he handed to Pierre. There had been one missive to be delivered a full day's ride away, and likely that was the one Pierre had just been assigned. If the reason for such a grin was something he needed to know, Treville expected he would hear about it from Aramis soon enough. So for now he ignored it and focused back on the rest of the men.

"You'll find today's palace and patrol duties posted momentarily. Peter and Ben, there's a comte in need of escort to an audience with the king, details to be found here."

Treville held up a folded paper and Ben stepped up to take it as Aramis returned to his place between Porthos and Marsac.

"I've received complaints from the Red Guard," Treville shot Aramis a glare, "of them being given information a bit light in  _truth_  from some of our men regarding the incident with those horses early this week."

" _A Red Guard wouldn't know truth if he tripped over it."_

Treville tossed another glare at Aramis for the whispered words, spoken under his breath to the men beside him, but still easily heard by everyone. The answering chuckles from the rest of the men had Treville's glare sliding over the entire group until they fell into silence again.

"Be that as it may," he ground out, "keep your silver tongue to yourself –  _yes_ , I know it was you."

Aramis snapped his mouth shut against the defense he'd likely been about to offer.

"Since you're so fond of horses in recent history, Aramis, you and Porthos can go collect the new mounts we purchased from deLuc. He's expecting you before the morning is out."

Aramis smiled, as unruffled by the scolding as he always was.

"The rest of you check the posting for your duties. Dismissed."

Treville handed the duty assignment roster to Alfred, who took it to the wall outside the refectory to tack it up. A presence at his side drew Treville's gaze over to Aramis.

"If you wanted to punish me, you might not have given me a duty I would enjoy."

"Who said anything about punishment?" Treville replied plainly. Then with a slight smirk, "Where  _did_  you send those Red Guards? The cardinal didn't mention."

Aramis' dark eyes lit with mischief and his lips quirked into a grin.

"That farm out near Chartres, with the dozens of pigs and piles of shit."

Treville bit down hard on the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. It took some doing, but he managed to keep his face impassive.

"All the while  _you_  were retrieving the missing horses yourself?"

Aramis nodded.

"I couldn't very well let the  _Red Guard_  retrieve them, could I? The gold they were carrying would have been a bit light upon its return if I had. As it was, Porthos and I had them safely bedded down in the royal stable before anyone of importance even knew they'd gone missing."

"A job well done then," Treville allowed.

Aramis grinned brightly.

"Indeed, Captain. Even better that I'll have the image of Marc covered in pig shit to sustain me for a long time to come."

Treville shook his head in exasperated amusement. It was easy to forget sometimes – when he was bravely and heroically putting his life on the line in service of the king and leading men like he was born to it – that Aramis was still so very young.

"Marc, I'm sure, won't let you forget it either," Treville reminded.

Aramis just smiled wider. Marc Defrain had been in the infantry with Aramis many years ago. A few years after Treville had brought Aramis into the Musketeers, Marc had been commissioned into the Red Guard. The two had remained something resembling friends – though Treville knew there had been a few darker years between them – despite the rivalry between the two regiments.

"Now," Treville pitched his voice to a firmer tone, "get on about your duties and come and see me when you get back. I've got something to discuss with you."

Aramis nodded and tipped the brim of his hat in farewell. Treville watched him stride over to Porthos and clap the larger man on the shoulder, urging him towards the stables. Marsac called after them from where he'd been checking his duties on the list and Aramis turned, bidding his friend a very loud farewell and then continuing on his way with Porthos.

Treville frowned a little when Marsac stared after them, undeniable jealousy painted across his features.

Marsac and Aramis had been close friends for years, but even Treville could see that Aramis had latched onto Porthos with vigor and enthusiasm. Treville had hoped for as much, to be honest. He knew that the transition for Porthos would not be a simple one, despite the honorable nature of the Musketeers. It was hard to combat lifetimes worth of learned bigotry.

Aramis, Treville had known, was an exception. He had always treated every person he met with kindness and equality. It was a characteristic Treville admired and loved about him. It endeared Aramis to everyone he met, made people love him for simply being who he was. This was why he'd assigned Aramis to shepherd Porthos into the ways of the Musketeer. Aramis, he knew, would make Porthos feel welcome and accepted. And in time, he hoped, Aramis' acceptance would lead the others onto the same path.

But he had not expected Aramis and Porthos to become such fast friends. Marsac, it seemed, hadn't expected that either.

This mission to Savoy – which he planned to present to Aramis tonight – should smooth some of those ruffled feathers when Marsac realized he'd be named as Aramis' second and Porthos wouldn't be going.

Perhaps some distance was all that was needed.

* * *

Aramis greeted his beautiful chestnut mare, Esmé, with a smile as she stretched her neck out through her stall door to meet him.

" _Buenos días, mi niña bella," (Good morning, my beautiful girl,)_ he murmured to her in Spanish. He didn't often use his mother's native tongue – not intentionally at least – but for Esmé he used nothing else. She nickered to him warmly and nuzzled her snout against his chest.

"You still haven't told me why you only speak to her in Spanish," Porthos commented from the next stall, where he was preparing to saddle the Garrison horse he always used – a tall, broad black named Fort.

"It sooths her," Aramis replied simply, though that was nowhere near the entire story. He would tell Porthos one day about the skittish little filly he had rescued from an abuser and nurtured back to strength with softly spoken Spanish and tender touches. Esmé still showed signs sometimes, of her painful past, most noticeably in the simple fact that she let no one but Aramis ride her and grew agitated around riding whips.

"Perhaps you could use a bit of that magic on Fort," Porthos grunted, growling something under his breath when his horse stubbornly avoided letting Porthos fit the bridle over his head.

Aramis chuckled and moved into Esmé's stall. He grabbed her bridle from where it hung on the wall and nudged her out into the open area of the stable, in full view of Fort.

" _Mostrémosle cómo se hace, Esmé." (Let's show him how it's done, Esmé.)_  Then to Porthos, "And you say she's the stubborn one."

He then set about bridling and saddling Esmé all with Fort eyeing them rebelliously. Finally, though, the horse let Porthos set about the same task.

"I only said Esmé takes after her master. You're the one that took that to mean she was stubborn," Porthos replied with a teasing smirk.

Aramis laughed, unable to deny it. He  _was_ stubborn. He knew this about himself. He'd also been  _told_  this many times throughout his life – by his mother, the old priest in the small border town he was born in, his siblings, his father, his commander in the infantry, and countless others over the years. The latest to tell him this had been Treville, then Marsac, and most recently Porthos, whom he was sure would not be the last.

It was his due, he supposed, that his horse would share such a trait.

When he'd finished with Esmé, Aramis leaned against her to watch Porthos finish up with Fort. Others had come into the stable since they'd arrived, all tacking up and preparing their horses for whatever duties they were assigned. None ventured over to them though. A few had called greetings or farewells to Aramis, but none had spoken to Porthos or drawn within arms' distance of the large man.

Such behavior had been common practice since Porthos, with his tall stature, broad shoulders, and brutish strength, had strode into the Garrison some five weeks ago as Treville's newest recruit.

If his imposing figure wasn't enough to send the rest of the men skittering away like frightened rabbits, everything else about him certainly seemed to have done the trick. It had been obvious, from the day Porthos arrived, that he had not come from any sort of means. He spoke with a lilt similar to one native to the slums of Paris, though Aramis hadn't yet learned the truth of where Porthos came from. Aramis, of anyone, had no right to pry about such things when the truth of his own childhood remained a mystery to all around him. Perhaps one day he would trust Porthos with his own past and perhaps one day Porthos would return that trust. But not yet.

But beyond the way he spoke, the color of Porthos' skin had seemed to raise some objection amongst the men.

Aramis understood it, it was just the way things were in their experience. But it wasn't  _his_  way and never had been. Though he'd spent his older youth under his father's considerably wealthy roof, Aramis' childhood had not been one of wealth and privilege. He had grown up quite familiar with feelings of bigotry and disdain.

His mother had been a woman of little means in a small town on the border with Spain. Her parents had been Spanish but had left their native land for France when she was just a child to settle in a little French town just over the border near the coast. She'd married young, had two children – his brother and sister, Vincent and Sabine – and then her husband and parents were all taken by fever in the span of a few short months. She had made a meager living as a cook after that, putting to work her considerable skills in the kitchen.

She never told him  _when_  exactly she had met his father – a French man called Julien d'Herblay – or even how long their affair had gone on. All he knew was that it had not lasted.

Bastard children tended to have that sort of effect on relationships.

D'Herblay left her before Aramis had even been born and returned to his waiting wife and the life he had in Rouen.

Alone once again, this time with the shame of an illegitimate baby on her shoulders, her life was left radically changed. Her community had been small and few had looked at her and seen anything but  _him_ , the child born from the sin of her affair. She could find no work as a cook and with the worry for her children's survival hanging over her, she'd turned to the only option left to her.

The woman who owned the brothel had offered food and shelter and his mother had done what was necessary to ensure her children survived.

She had been a beautiful woman. Men had been more than willing to pay.

She'd sworn to him, many times, that she had not turned to such a life until after his father. She promised him he had not been a product of her vocation, but that she had loved his father deeply.

He believed her, no matter what anyone else had ever said.

As it was, one didn't spend their childhood as the illegitimate son of a Spanish prostitute without learning a bit about how a person ought to be judged. It should be the merit of a man, or woman's, heart that truly tells you who they are. Not where they live or how they speak, what they own, what they're forced to do to provide for those they love, and most especially not how they look. He had inherited her Spanish features far more than either of his siblings and knew well what it felt like to be judged with a glance.

As it stood, Aramis had never been one to rush to judgment based on so insubstantial criteria as  _wealth_  or  _privilege_ or what color of skin you happened to have been born with.

When his father had come and taken him away, Aramis had come to realize that prejudice ran deep in the hearts of men – and especially in his father. But if he was anything, Aramis was stubborn, and he held firmly to the ideals his mother had instilled in him from infancy.

" _Judge a man by the heart in his actions,"_  she'd always told him.

A deeply religious woman despite her occupation, kind and gentle in spirit, his mother had taught him to give kindness freely. To treat all men, no matter their station, with the respect every living being deserved. He'd spent his childhood seeing her live that lesson towards others, despite the fact that she was given no such consideration in return. Her vocation had fated her to a life of scorn and ridicule. She could have hated Aramis for what his birth had forced her to become, for the life she had suffered because of him.

But instead she had loved him.  _Fiercely_. She had refused to let either of them ever be bridled by shame. She'd taught him to be proud and strong simply by being those things herself.

But she paid a heavy price for loving him so completely. She was forced to sacrifice herself, every day, just so that he and his siblings could have a safe roof over their heads and food in their bellies.

He lived every day, made every choice, with her on his mind and in his heart.

She would have liked Porthos, he thought.

She would have taken one look at him and adopted him as her own. She had been such a gentle, kind soul, too good for the life she'd been forced to lead. He hoped, with everything he had, that she would be proud of the man he had become.

"Oi," Porthos' deep, rumbling voice drew him out of his musings. "You all right?"

Aramis smiled warmly and nodded.

"Just thinking," he assured. "Remembering a love lost long ago."

And how he had  _loved_  his mother. He would give anything to see her again, to hear her voice one last time. But it was never to be, not in this life at least. His father had seen to that.

"Long ago, eh? Breaking hearts as a babe, were you?" Porthos teased, though his eyes were soft and kind. Aramis chuckled lightly and fell into step with Porthos as they led their horses out into the yard.

"Are you even surprised, brother?" Aramis replied flippantly to ward off any further questions. Then he swung up into his saddle and shifted the pistol hooked at his back to rest a little more comfortably. He thought for a moment to go retrieve his arquebus from his room, but decided against it. DeLuc's was not that far outside of Paris and it was a path Aramis was familiar with. He did not expect to run into trouble.

Marsac appeared at his side, looking up at him with a smirk.

"Since I know how well you and trouble are acquainted," his friend teased as he held up Aramis' arquebus and slid it into the saddle pouch designed specifically to house the weapon.

Next to him, mounted now as well, Porthos laughed.

Aramis rolled his eyes and again didn't bother defending himself. Trouble followed him, or he followed it…it was hard to tell which was the truth of it really. Besides, he would never complain of having  _too many_  weapons with which to defend himself.

He extended a hand down to Marsac and waited for him to grip it before sitting back.

"Dinner? At The Wren?" he suggested.

"Wouldn't miss it," Marsac agreed. He didn't look at Porthos, Aramis noticed, and it was left unsaid whether the large man would be included in the meal.

"We'll see you there," Aramis replied, putting that unspoken question to rest.

Marsac's smile slipped a bit, but then he nodded, backing away to give Esmé room to move.

"Shall we?" Aramis looked to Porthos, who nodded.

And they were off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter One
> 
> So here we have it! The beginning of this journey is finally here! I've been promising it for ages! This story is complete and fully beta'd. I will post a chapter every day for the duration, which in this case is 17 chapters.
> 
> If you feel so inclined, please take a moment to drop me a line down in that little review box to let me know what you think!
> 
> But first, here's a little preview of tomorrow's chapter to wet your appetites!
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "I'm to stay behind?" Porthos frowned as he watched Aramis tuck into his stew. His friend looked up at him from his bowl and smiled in sympathy.
> 
> "You're lucky, really," he commented, "to be staying here. Nothing but bitter cold and snow in the mountains of Savoy this time of year."
> 
> Porthos treated him with a long, dry glare that had Aramis grinning in response.
> 
> "Think of all the rations you'll avoid."
> 
> Porthos arched an incredulous eyebrow.
> 
> "No sleeping on bedrolls with rocks and twigs digging into your spine."
> 
> Porthos continued to stare.
> 
> "No long days on horseback that leave your back aching and your ass numb."
> 
> "You're right," Porthos finally chuckled. "I pity you this horrible venture now."


	2. Shining Like a Lighthouse From the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter One: Lady_Neve, GingietheSnap, Daisy_Chain, and BourbonRose. You all make my heart happy!

  _There is a destiny that makes us brothers: none goes his own way alone.  
_ _**Edwin Markham** _

* * *

_March 12, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Garrison, Paris_

* * *

Aramis trotted wearily up the stairs to Treville's office, gripping the rail and trying to stretch his back as he moved. He loved riding, especially Esmé, but a day in the saddle was always taxing. The road back to Paris had been a bit slower than the road out of it. Leading six riderless horses tended to inhibit speed of travel. For this reason, he and Porthos had only just gotten back to the city. He had sent Porthos ahead to The Wren to inform Marsac they were back and he'd taken on the duty of checking in with Treville. The captain had said he wanted to speak with him anyway.

He knocked once on the door and then let himself in.

Treville was sitting at his desk, looking over some papers, but he raised his gaze when Aramis entered.

"Uneventful?" Treville asked as he set aside the papers and stood, pouring two glasses of wine and holding one out to Aramis as he sat.

"More or less. One of the horses bolted halfway back to Paris. Took me and Esmé nearly an hour to chase him down. A real character, that one. I think deLuc said he was called Roger."

Treville chuckled and sat back behind his desk.

"Otherwise, no problems. All six are safe and sound in the stables."

"Glad to hear it."

"What about on this end? Any trouble today?" Aramis asked as he sipped his wine. He and Treville usually traded reports every day.

"Nothing major; nothing you need to concern yourself with," Treville replied.

Aramis nodded and sipped more wine.

"Have you eaten?" Treville asked with an air of nonchalance.

Aramis wasn't fooled. Treville was the subtlest mother hen he had ever met. He hid his concern under gruff words, stern looks, and feigned indifference, but Aramis had known him far too long not to see the truth of it.

"Porthos and Marsac are awaiting my delightful company at The Wren even now."

"I won't keep you long, then," Treville replied, leaning forward and retrieving a paper from his desk. He held it out for Aramis to take even as he went on. "I'm sending you to lead a training exercise. You and your second will take twenty of the men to Savoy and spend a fortnight running them through the paces."

Aramis felt his eyebrows rise in surprise as he took the page.

"Twenty men?" he asked. "That's well over half the regiment."

"A reserve unit will stay behind to carry out the daily duties to the king," Treville went on. "We're long past due on a training exercise such as this. They were commonplace when our numbers were smaller, as I'm sure you remember."

Aramis nodded, grinning at the memory of long days spent running maneuvers in the fields and nights filled with laughter and comradery amongst the others. Treville had always led such ventures, usually with Tristan acting as his second – before Tristan retired to a life of husbandry and fatherhood after an injury to his chest left him constantly short of breath. In more recent years, Aramis had taken up the title of 'second' on such missions. But never before had he led one on his own. He couldn't help a nervous flutter in his stomach as he wondered if he was ready for such an undertaking.

"I know that look," Treville scolded without any heat. "Leave those doubts behind. You've been on enough of these ventures to manage this one without me." The look Treville gave him bore a hint of affection and a warming bit of pride.

He nodded.

"And my second?" he asked, already warming to the whole idea and drawing up plans in his head.

"Marsac," Treville answered immediately. "You've a list there of those you're taking with you."

Aramis turned his attention to the paper in his hands and read over the names and orders as Treville continued.

"Spend tomorrow in preparation and leave on the first of the month."

Aramis nodded absently, his brow drawing together as he read the list of names a second time and found one name lacking.

"Not Porthos?" he asked abruptly, fixing Treville with a surprised and vaguely scolding look.

"No, not Porthos." Treville's voice was firm and unapologetic. He also didn't bother explaining his decision on the matter.

"I'd say he's proven his worth," Aramis argued brazenly, "and earned the right to know it."

Leaving Porthos here, when the man would thrive on such a mission, sent a very clear message to everyone. Aramis had been working to have the men accept the new recruit for weeks now and leaving him behind now could undo what little – and it was markedly  _little_  – progress he'd made so far.

Treville's brow raised slowly and his blue eyes hardened to a glare.

Aramis was often allowed to speak his mind, especially in private – a privilege born of the many years they'd known each other and worked together – but he rarely spoke out so boldly against a decision that had already been made. He was suddenly extremely grateful Marsac was not present for this briefing or he'd likely find himself under censure for insubordination. Treville tolerated a lot from him, but never insubordination in the presence of another Musketeer, and for good reason.

"Forgive me," he offered contritely, folding his apology into his tone and dipping his head submissively. He looked up through his lashes to see Treville rolling his eyes at the formality of it.

" _Go_ , have your dinner," Treville waved him towards the door. "We'll speak more tomorrow. Can I assume you'll inform Marsac?"

"I'll see it done," Aramis replied as he pushed to standing. Then, because it was his nature to be annoying when given the chance, he bowed deeply to Treville. "By your leave,  _mon capitaine."_

Treville scoffed.

" _Out_  with you," he growled with an extra bit of gruffness that Aramis saw straight through to the affection hidden beneath. "Save your formalities for the palace where they belong."

Aramis smiled cheekily and did as he was bid.

* * *

Marsac looked up from his plate of food when he heard the tavern door open. He found himself smiling in greeting when he saw Aramis step through the door and look around. But instead of heading his direction, Aramis saw someone else first and started towards the opposite end of the tavern.

Towards Porthos.

Marsac frowned, watching Aramis remove his hat and take a seat at the table Porthos occupied, catching a passing serving girl and likely putting in a request for food. Then he and Porthos started chatting amicably.

Porthos had arrived at the tavern some time ago and approached Marsac to tell him Aramis would be along shortly. That, typically, would have been the time for Marsac to offer a seat to the other man. But he hadn't. Porthos hadn't presumed to take a seat without invitation and had moved off to sit by himself.

Marsac hadn't even considered that Aramis might choose to sit with Porthos instead of him. How many years had they known each other now? And Porthos had been here for just over a month.

As if sensing his thoughts, Aramis shifted in his seat, looking around the tavern, spotting Marsac a moment later.

The marksman's brow rose in surprise and he turned back to Porthos, saying something Marsac was too far away to hear. Porthos just shrugged in response and Aramis' shoulders heaved with a sigh. Then Aramis was standing again, saying one more thing to Porthos before heading across the tavern to Marsac.

He watched his friend approach, ever present hat clutched in his hands as his fingers worried the brim. Sometimes Marsac had to fight the urge to rip the damn thing from Aramis' hands just so he'd stop fidgeting with it.

"Come and join us, Marsac," Aramis suggested kindly as he stood next to Marsac's chair.

"You and  _him_?" Marsac replied bitterly, taking a long drink from his wine cup. He already felt warm from the cups that had come before. "Why don't you come join  _me_?"

"Well Porthos wasn't invited to begin with, was he?" Aramis shot back, voice a bit sharper than Marsac had come to expect from him. "Don't make this a choice between you and him, Marsac."

Marsac looked up at him sharply, clearly hearing what Aramis' statement implied. If he made this a choice, Aramis would not choose him. And who could blame him? Marsac was being a petty child. But with wine in his belly and his head already buzzing a bit, he couldn't find the inclination to care about his own fault in the matter.

"I was your friend first, Aramis. You seem to have forgotten that."

"It's not a competition, Marsac."

"You've known him a month,  _a month_ , and you chose him over me?"

He knew he should stop. The wine was making his words bitter and his mind muddled. He would say something he would regret if he wasn't careful, something even Aramis – the most forgiving man he'd ever known – might not let pass.

"Well  _he_  would never deny a fellow Musketeer a seat at his table."

The words were like a slap to his face and Marsac sat there, stunned at the biting tone. Aramis' temper was often like a coiled snake, harmless enough until it struck, leaving devastation in its wake.

Aramis sighed deeply and rubbed a hand up through the hair that had escaped the binding at the back of his head. A visible breath showed his controlled attempt to calm himself.

"We're to lead a training exercise, you and I," Aramis revealed suddenly, voice once again composed and measured. "We leave the day after tomorrow and you're to be my second. Porthos is not coming."

Marsac looked up at him again, blinking as he processed the news.

"I hope that you and I can find peace over this in that time, Marsac. I do not wish to lose your friendship. But know this: I will not cast him aside for the sake of your jealousy."

"I'm not jealous," Marsac defended in a grumble, though he knew it was not entirely true.

"Good," Aramis replied sharply. "You've no reason to be. I can be a friend to him  _and_  to you without any great strain on my person. But you haven't even given him a  _chance_. I had hoped you might be different than the rest."

Aramis sounded so  _disappointed_  that Marsac felt warring feelings of shame and anger rise up in him. Aramis was scolding him like a child, but was he wrong? Not entirely. Marsac  _hadn't_  really given Porthos a chance. Part of that  _was_  out of jealousy, he knew, but mostly it was because he was not like Aramis. He was not so easily able to look past all that made Porthos different than the rest of them.

"He's not the right sort for the regiment, Aramis," Marsac pointed out sourly, before he thought better of it.

He watched as Aramis' eyes went darker and something in them chilled.

"What sort is that,  _exactly_?" he asked lowly.

Marsac glanced around them to be sure no one was listening and then back up to meet Aramis' gaze.

"You know."

Aramis' expression hardened to stone and he arched his brow doubtfully.

"No, I  _don't_. Please enlighten me as to how he is any less deserving of this uniform than you or I?"

Marsac paused, sensing he'd trodden onto dangerous ground. He shifted another glance around and saw a group of Red Guards sitting a few tables away. He remembered then the times he'd heard them mutter slurs behind Aramis' back – and sometimes to his face – about the Spanish blood so obviously in his veins. They judged him for his looks, without ever knowing  _him_.

He could never admit to letting the same way of thinking color his view of Porthos. Not if he wanted to remain Aramis' friend.

"I only mean he's a bit unrefined," Marsac answered carefully. "The way he talks…he's from the slums, you have to know that."

Porthos had likely been a beggar at best, a thief at worst, before he found the military. Perhaps such men could find a place in the common infantry, but not in the Musketeers, not amongst the king's elite.

"Even if that is true, he is there no longer," Aramis pointed out quietly, but fiercely. "A man is only as good as the life he chooses. Porthos has chosen  _this_  one, just as you did. Just as  _I_  did."

There was something there, something in the way Aramis spoke of his own choice. Marsac couldn't put his finger on it, but there was a weight behind the words, a hidden truth that Marsac didn't know. He frowned a bit even as Aramis went on.

"We're  _Musketeers_ , Marsac," Aramis told him firmly, speaking their title as if it were a weapon all its own. "We are meant to stand apart from the rest, to be  _better_. Ours is meant to be a brotherhood for  _all_  who wear the uniform. All for one, one for all," he recited, his tone both reverent and fierce. "What good are the words if we don't live by them?"

Marsac looked down into his cup and stayed silent. Aramis had always taken their creed to heart, had always born the ideals of the Musketeers as if they were written on his soul. It was no surprise, really, as he had been there when that motto was written. He had been one of the first to say it. He had stood, side by side, with Treville and four others as they swore the first Musketeer oath to the king.

Aramis had always embodied all it meant to  _be_  a Musketeer.

But they could not all be so perfect or so noble. In fact, in Marsac's experience, it was Aramis who tended to have his head in the sand in the matters of reality.

"Brotherhood is a choice, Aramis," Marsac replied bitterly, "not an obligation. You've no right to demand such a thing from everyone on his behalf."

Aramis stilled next to him and Marsac forced himself to look up again and meet his friend's gaze. He'd never before seen such a look in his dear friend's eyes. He had earned Aramis' disappointment before, his anger too, but never like this. Never had Aramis looked at him as if he didn't even recognize him.

"You're right," Aramis agreed softly, "brotherhood  _is_  a choice, one you and I made between us long ago."

Marsac nodded slightly, suddenly terrified of what Aramis would say next. He wondered suddenly if he had gone too far, if Aramis would put an end to that brotherhood now. But Aramis, he might have known, would always be too forgiving.

"That will never change," his friend assured warmly, but before Marsac could even feel relief, Aramis stepped back, away from the table; away from  _him_. "But I make that same choice now, for Porthos. I had only hoped that you would make it with me."

Then Aramis was gone and Marsac felt sharply the loss of his presence.

He watched the marksman move back to the table across the tavern and return to his seat with Porthos.

He would lose Aramis to him, Marsac could see that clearly now. It had already started. There was an ease between the two that Marsac knew even  _he_  had never shared with Aramis. It was as if there was a deeper bond there, already in place. If Marsac didn't know better, he would have said they were kindred spirits.

But that was not possible. Porthos was from the slums, the gutter of Paris. Aramis was… Marsac didn't exactly know where Aramis was from. His friend had never spoken of his past. But it was obvious he'd been brought up in the ways of at least a lesser nobility.

There should be no reason for the friendship between the two to strike so quickly and burn so brightly. And yet it did.

Marsac scowled across the tavern at them and watched Aramis accept a bowl of stew from the serving girl. The smile he bestowed upon her sent a blush to the young woman's cheeks as she hurried back to her work.

Marsac thought maybe Aramis would glance back at him, would seek him out, would be missing him from the mealtime conversation.

But Aramis just turned back to Porthos and continued talking.

Marsac felt hurt and jealousy burn hot in his gut as he reached for more wine.

* * *

"I'm to stay behind?" Porthos frowned as he watched Aramis tuck into his stew. His friend looked up at him from his bowl and smiled in sympathy.

"You're lucky, really," he commented, "to be staying here. Nothing but bitter cold and snow in the mountains of Savoy this time of year."

Porthos treated him with a long, dry glare that had Aramis grinning in response.

"Think of all the rations you'll avoid."

Porthos arched an incredulous eyebrow.

"No sleeping on bedrolls with rocks and twigs digging into your spine."

Porthos continued to stare.

"No long days on horseback that leave your back aching and your ass numb."

"You're right," Porthos finally chuckled. "I pity you this horrible venture now."

Aramis' smile turned cheeky and he was obviously pleased with himself for brightening Porthos' mood on the subject.

"Did he say why?" Porthos ventured carefully. "Why I'm to be left behind?"

Aramis shifted in his seat and shook his head as he scooped another spoonful of stew into his mouth.

"Treville has his reasons," Aramis assured kindly after he swallowed. "I trust him and so should you. He knows what he's doing."

Porthos nodded miserably and sighed, feeling a bit stung by the decision. He would have excelled on a training mission such as this. He could not see why Treville would rob him of his chance to finally prove his worth to the other men.

"I know you're frustrated," Aramis soothed. "But your time will come."

"Just not  _this_  time," Porthos pointed out wryly.

Aramis quirked his lips in vague apology.

"Not this time," he agreed. "But look at it this way: you'll have a month, now, to advance your position in the Garrison. With so few remaining behind, you'll be assigned extra duties and have the chance to learn and do more than you have before. By the time we return, I've no doubt you'll seem such a natural fixture at the Garrison that none will dare question it."

Porthos felt his lips curve into a grin. Perhaps Aramis was right. He should view this as an opportunity, not a loss. He still could not help feeling, though, as he watched Aramis return to his meal, that the coming month would be a very lonely one.

* * *

 _March 14, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Garrison_

* * *

Treville tilted the wine bottle to refill his cup and then shifted to do the same for the man next to him. The hour was late, or rather  _early_  now. It had long since passed the time when it would have been worth it to try and find some sleep before dawn.

Aramis was hunched over Treville's desk, fingers tracing a path on the map spread out before them, brow knitted in thought.

"Here," the marksman decided, tapping his finger on a place in the mountains. "Near enough to water but far enough from the nearby village that we shouldn't cause them disruption."

Treville leaned over Aramis' shoulder, looking at his selected location and the surrounding area.

"In the forest? Why not find a field?" he asked, brow arched in challenge.

Aramis sat back where he'd been seated in Treville's chair and met his gaze confidently.

"The trees lend to better cover from the elements. There's a plain a bit further east," he gestured to the map vaguely, "that we can travel to when the task warrants. But, as I learned from my time with Medina, battle doesn't always find you on an open field. The men need to know how to maneuver in the trees as well."

Treville found himself smiling, offering a nod of approval. He did, however, have to fight down a wave of tension at the mention of Darío Medina, a self-appointed General who hailed from Spain but whom the Spanish did not claim. When Medina and his band of followers had terrorized southern France three years ago using gruesome guerrilla tactics, it had been Aramis who'd infiltrated the rogue militant group and eventually helped to bring about Medina's capture. It had been the only time in his five years with the Musketeers that Treville had asked such a thing of the young soldier and he had vowed never to ask it again.

"He's languishing in the Bastille, you know," Aramis' gently teasing voice drew him out of his reverie. "You needn't look so worried just by the mention of his name."

Treville leaned to sit on the edge of his desk, eyes fixed on the map instead of facing his young protégé.

"And last he saw of me I was valiantly taking a musket ball to the chest in the name of his cause. Even if he were to escape, he would not see me as an enemy," Aramis went on reasonably. "I'm in no danger from him."

"I know that," Treville snapped gruffly, taking a long drink from his wine. That 'valiantly' taken musket ball had nearly killed the marksman, but of course Aramis couldn't be bothered to  _care_  about that.

"And yet you look as if that wine has gone sour."

Treville finally shifted his glare to Aramis, wholly annoyed to find the boy smiling back at him.

"Somebody has to worry over you," Treville grumbled. "You do a piss poor job of doing it yourself."

Aramis chuckled and leaned forward again, reaching for his own wine with one hand and the papers scattered on the desk with the other. He didn't bother arguing against Treville's accusation and the captain hadn't expected him to. He had no defense, after all, because it was  _true_.

"Do you think just the three days of night maneuvers is enough?" Aramis asked suddenly, eyes scanning the topmost sheet of paper.

Treville smiled.

"Yes, as I assured you the last three times you brought it up."

Aramis grumbled a bit under his breath, but continued to read over the words on the page, written in his own hand not more than a few hours ago.

"And do you think…"

"That three days of hard survival training is enough? Yes, I do."

Aramis slid a sheepish look up at him and then looked back down the page.

"What about…"

"Aramis," Treville pushed his palm against the page, forcing Aramis to place it back on the desk, "you're ready. You've planned and prepared beyond what is even necessary."

Aramis snatched up a quill from the table and started fiddling with it, leaning back in the chair. Treville watched him, used to such expenses of energy from the young man. Aramis, though able to remain absolutely still for hours if he was asked to take position as a sharpshooter, was often full of restless energy.

"Why are you keeping Porthos back?"

The question was quiet, a bit hesitant, and held no hint of challenge. It was just honest curiosity. It was a student wanting to learn from his teacher.

Treville took another drink from his wine and met Aramis' questioning gaze.

"Do you think he needs such training refreshers?" Treville asked bluntly.

Aramis blinked, quill stilling its dance in his fingers.

"He did just come straight out of the infantry," Treville reminded. "Where such training is common course."

Aramis tilted his head a bit, gaze thoughtful.

"I suppose not," he admitted finally, answering his captain's question. "But it would give him a chance to show the others why you chose him."

Treville inclined his head. That was true.

"But would that not deny the training to one who  _actually_  needs it?"

Aramis frowned, obviously not having considered that.

"It's nice to see there are still  _some_  things I have left to teach you," Treville chuckled, patting Aramis' knee affectionately.

"You've a great deal left to teach me," Aramis replied immediately.

Treville laughed.

"Perhaps how to hold your tongue?" he teased.

Aramis shifted his gaze away, a slight blush rising in his cheeks.

"I never  _intend_  to speak out amongst the others," he defended, gaze sliding back to Treville's sheepishly.

"And yet your intentions never stop it happening."

Aramis shrugged a shoulder, quill once again twirling about restlessly between his fingers.

"You're also not so good with orders half the time," Treville pointed out with a laugh.

The quill stilled and was then pointed demonstratively at Treville's chest.

"I happen to be  _wonderful_  at following orders…so long as they're not  _idiotic_."

Treville shook his head in fond exasperation at the strident defense.

"I always follow  _your_  orders, do I not?" Aramis challenged.

"When it suits you," Treville shot back. Aramis narrowed his gaze.

"That time with the boat and horses in Calais  _doesn't_  count."

"Doesn't it?" Treville asked doubtfully.

"No, because in the end,  _I_ was proven right."

"I suppose you were. Though you were also proven half dead by the end as well, if I remember."

Aramis' shoulders twitched in another dismissive shrug.

"I knew you'd follow."

Treville sighed.

"I will not always be there to snatch you from the jaws of death, Aramis. If you're to one day lead these men as I do, you must learn to temper your instinct to run headlong into danger."

Aramis scoffed.

"This from  _you_?" he chuckled sarcastically.

Treville was unmoved.

"You must learn restraint and forethought and let the men serving under you fulfill their purpose. You cannot lead if you are dead."

"I will never send a man into a situation I would not first willingly go myself," Aramis replied, suddenly serious. "That's a lesson I learned from  _you_ , Treville. And often times there is not time for restraint and forethought. There is only time for action, for  _instinct_. You know this. You  _taught_  me this."

Treville sighed. He did and he had.

"Perhaps I just wish you would not court death and danger so brazenly."

He had grown quite fond of the young soldier before him, a boy he'd watched grow into a man, and he did not intend to see him come to an untimely end because of his own recklessness.

Aramis smiled warmly.

"I'm a Musketeer," he replied proudly. "Courting death and danger are my way of life. But for you,  _mon Capitaine_ , I will endeavor to exercise a bit more caution."

Treville rolled his eyes.

"Don't patronize me with your lies, you silver tongued devil.  _Caution_ ," he scoffed. "You don't even know the meaning of the word."

Aramis shrugged again, a wicked and mischievous grin on his face. Treville watched his eyes then stray to the papers on the desk. Treville smiled patiently.

"Would you like to review your plans one more time?" he offered.

The sheepish glance he got in return had him chuckling and reaching for more wine.

* * *

 _March 15, 1625  
_ _The Louvre Palace, Paris_

* * *

Aramis and the men had been gone only a day when Treville received a summons from the king.

He arrived at the palace and was taken immediately to the council chamber, narrowing his eyes warily when he saw the cardinal standing at Louis' shoulder. He always felt wary when Richelieu was involved. The man was a serpent in the grass, always looking for the opportune moment to strike. Treville had no doubt Richelieu acted in what  _he_  believed were the best interests of France, but his methods often left a sour taste in Treville's mouth.

"I've something I need from you, Treville," Louis stated immediately.

"I am at your command, Your Majesty," Treville replied easily.

"The troops you've just sent to Savoy," the cardinal spoke for the king now. "You are to pass on their location to the duke."

Treville felt trepidation rise in his chest. It was an odd request. The movements of French troops were not details often passed on to others freely.

"Why?" he asked.

"It is not your place to question your king," the cardinal replied sharply.

"It was not my king that issued the order," he shot back, turning his gaze to Louis.

"It  _is_  my order, Treville. You know the place at which your men will camp?"

Treville nodded slowly.

"Then you will send a dispatch at once to Savoy and inform the duke of this information," Louis commanded.

Louis must have read his unease because he softened slightly.

"I only wish to alert my sister's husband that my men are within his borders, so that he is not caught unawares. I shouldn't want any violence to spark between his men and my own through misunderstanding." Something in the king's words seemed to…ring just short of true. But the explanation was a reasonable one and Treville was not fool enough to question him again.

He stole a glance at Richelieu now, his gut churning uneasily at the impassive expression the man wore. There was  _something_  in his eyes…

"Treville?" Louis prodded.

"Your Majesty," Treville bowed slightly, "it will be as you say. I shall send the dispatch immediately."

"Excellent!" Louis chirped, exchanging a smile with Richelieu. "On your way, then, Treville, get it done."

Treville bowed once more and turned on his heel, marching back the way he'd come.

It was with a dry throat and a twisting stomach that he wrote out his message, sending it off with a royal rider before he even left the palace.

He told himself that these were the king's own soldiers hand-picked; specially trained Musketeers. There was no reason to fear for them. And it did make sense, he supposed, to inform the duke of their troops' movements within his lands. For their own safety, and that of the duke's men.

But as he rode back to the Garrison, the twisting in his gut would not settle.

* * *

 _March 20, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Encampment, Savoy_

* * *

Aramis chewed the inside of his lip as he watched Marsac settle on his side of the tent. The rest of the men were already bedded down to sleep – save the two he'd set on sentry duty. Standing watch was as much training as running maneuvers.

But Aramis was restless.

He and Marsac had barely spoken over this last week, beyond what was necessary at least.

Aramis knew he had drawn a battle line of sorts that night in the tavern. He'd chosen to pursue his friendship with Porthos, despite  _knowing_  it upset Marsac. He did not want to lose his friendship,  _his brotherhood_ , with Marsac, but he could not fight the same call he felt towards Porthos.

There was just  _something_  about the large man - something familiar and comforting.

They'd walked some similar paths, Aramis suspected, though he doubted Porthos had been whisked away by a wealthy father in his youth. But just the same, Aramis' childhood might not have been so different than Porthos' in their earlier years. It was this, the recognition of a kindred spirit perhaps, that drew him to the large Musketeer.

Being around Porthos felt inexplicably like going home. It felt easy and comfortable in a way Aramis had not felt since he'd last seen his mother, thirteen long years ago.

He could not explain it. He didn't want to. He only wanted to embrace it.

But he did not want to lose Marsac.

"Marsac?" he called quietly.

The other man went still and then warily rolled to look at him in question.

"Are we still brothers?"

He watched Marsac's blue eyes blink in shock and then the man eased up onto his elbow to face Aramis fully. Warily, Aramis pushed up onto his own elbow to mirror the position.

For a long time Marsac just stared at him, but then something softened in his friend's gaze.

"Do you want us to be?" he finally asked.

Aramis' eyes widened, shocked Marsac even felt he had to ask.

" _Yes_ ," he insisted. "With all my heart,  _mon ami_."

"Would you give up your friendship with him if I asked you to?"

Aramis felt his heart stutter in his chest.

" _Would_  you ask me to?" he asked carefully.

Marsac stared at him quietly, his expression stony. But there was vulnerability in his gaze. He was afraid of Aramis' answer.

He sighed.

"If I did such a thing," Aramis answered softly, "I would no longer be the man you call a brother. I would not give him up for you, Marsac…just as I would not give you up for him."

He wasn't sure what reaction his words would get, so he was relieved when Marsac's lips curled into a slight smile.

"Equality in your affections," he mused. "I suppose I can ask no more than that."

"He's a good man, Marsac," Aramis felt the need to explain.

Marsac sighed, his gaze affectionately exasperated.

"So you continue to claim. But you don't  _know_  him."

"I didn't know  _you_ , either, once upon a time."

Marsac's eyes grew distant, no doubt remembering their own turbulent meeting four years ago. Finally, something like understanding dawned in Marsac's gaze.

"You're right," Marsac admitted quietly. Then he met Aramis' eyes earnestly. "If you see a worthiness in Porthos, I will endeavor to see it too."

Aramis smiled.

"That's all I ask,  _mon frére_. I only want you to give him the same chance you and I gave each other all those years ago."

Marsac nodded his agreement and when he reached a hand across the tent towards Aramis, the marksman grasped it willingly.

Aramis felt his world shift back onto an even kilter and smiled again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Two
> 
> I hope you enjoyed our second chapter! We'll be back tomorrow with Chapter Three! As you can see, I have some strong headcannons about the relationship between Aramis and Treville before Savoy. I love me some Papa Treville.
> 
> Until tomorrow, I would love to hear what you think. I, as most writers tend to, thrive on reviews.
> 
> But before we part, here is a preview of what's to come. This preview is short but clearly shows you what's to come.
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn*
> 
> It was instinct that woke Aramis. Pure, battle-bred, soldier's instinct. The weariness of his limbs told him he'd only been sleeping two, perhaps three, hours.
> 
> He laid absolutely still, listening intently for whatever had pulled him from his rest. There was nothing, no sound. Not even the rustle of the wind.


	3. I Could Never Take the World Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Two: shanachie, Scarlett77, Lady_Neve, Daisy_Chain, Thimblerig, HLN, issa, and im_great_at_boats

 

_Brotherhood is the very price and condition of man's survival.  
_ _**Carlos P. Romulo** _

* * *

_March 28, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Encampment, Savoy_

* * *

It was instinct that woke Aramis. Pure, battle-bred, soldier's instinct. The weariness of his limbs told him he'd only been sleeping two, perhaps three, hours.

He laid absolutely still, listening intently for whatever had pulled him from his rest. There was nothing, no sound. Not even the rustle of the wind.

"Marsac," he called lowly.

As his friend stirred on the other side of the tent pole, Aramis threw aside his blankets, pulling his main gauche from its place hidden beneath his bedroll and reaching for his pistol. It was likely nothing. It wouldn't be the first time a dream he did not remember had woken him. Having been a soldier since he was 16, his instincts were sometimes  _over-_ tuned.

But still, the skin across the back of his neck was prickling, warning him of unseen danger.

He used his dagger to nudge aside the flap to his tent and was met with a lunging blade.

"ATTACK!" he shouted as loud as he could manage, knocking away the blade with the barrel of his pistol. Even as the cry left his lips, an answering scream ripped through the camp. But it was not a scream of battle as his had been. It was of pain.

Marsac was scrambling to his feet and reaching for his sword as the attacker lurched into their tent. Aramis ducked the swinging blade and leapt forward, neatly driving his main gauche into the man's throat.

That hadn't been so hard.

Though he had a feeling the attacker hadn't expected him to be ready with defense. He thanked God above that he always slept in his breeches and boots when making camp. One never knew when a hasty exit might be necessary, and doing battle in one's underclothes was never the most favorable circumstance…as he unfortunately knew from experience.

He had his weapons belt strapped on in seconds and looked across the small tent to see Marsac similarly prepared. They hastily helped each other buckle on their pauldrons and then met gazes.

Marsac gave him a firm nod, grip tightening on his sword hilt.

Aramis slid his dagger into its sheath and drew his sword. With it in one hand and a pistol in the other, he swept the tent flap aside and he and Marsac stepped out into the night together to survey the camp.

There was chaos.

Men, wearing masks to hide their faces, tore through the trees around them. Those of his men who had heard his cry of warning were now fighting valiantly, but he could see half their number lying unmoving on their bedrolls.

Ten, or perhaps less, of them remained against unknown numbers.

He didn't think. He didn't hesitate. He just let his instincts guide him.

Aramis raised his pistol, firing at the man nearest him, not waiting to watch him fall before dropping the pistol and reaching for its match clipped at his back. He fired it as well and tossed it aside, reaching for his main gauche once again.

He and Marsac moved as one. They'd served together for four years now, had fought side by side in numerous skirmishes and battles. They knew each other's moves and rhythms and could act in nearly perfect synchronization.

This may be their day to die, but they would die as Musketeers. They would die fighting with and for their brothers. Aramis knew, without doubt or hesitation, that he would die right here in this frozen forest if it meant any one of his brothers had a chance to live.

It was what their motto stood for, was it not?

All for one, one for all.

He just had to give them their best chance. That meant finding the leader. It was the most fundamental battle strategy, taught to him on his first days in the infantry. If you felled the leader, the followers will falter.

He searched the area quickly with his sharp gaze. It didn't take him long to find the man he sought. He was hard to miss.

As the only man still on horseback, fighting from a position of relative safety, he was prancing through the battle, slashing out at any Musketeer in striking distance of his sword. His position on a horse gave him an advantage that Aramis was looking forward to removing.

"Marsac," he called over his shoulder to his friend. "I'm taking the leader!"

He didn't expect Marsac to follow him, but he needed his brother to know Aramis was no longer at his back. There was an acknowledging shout and then he was moving.

He charged towards the horse and rider, expertly parrying away flying blades as he stalked towards his prey. The masked man saw him a moment too late. He had only the time to snarl a curse before Aramis was neatly slicing through the billet of the saddle and the large man was sent tumbling to the ground.

The horse pranced backwards nervously, but Aramis ignored the animal in favor of the raging enemy scrambling up from the snow to face him.

Their battle was as brutal and bloody as it was swift.

They traded vicious blows, both drawing blood with surface wounds.

The tip of the other man's sword caught him low on his left side, a glancing hit that ripped into the muscle of his abdomen but did not go deep. He returned the blow with a sweeping strike to the leader's chest. It was shallow, would likely not even scar, but it drove the man back.

They both drew in ragged breaths and circled each other.

Then they moved again, a blur of lunging blades and slashing daggers.

Aramis lost his main gauche to an expertly executed attack that he only barely managed to defend.

When he managed to push his own offense again, Aramis was able to get in a stinging blow to the man's face with the handguard of his rapier.

But then Aramis went to one knee with a shout of pain when the enemy's dagger sunk into his thigh. With a growl of anger, Aramis swept his blade up, driving the man back a step. He recklessly pulled the dagger free of his leg and flipped the blade into his hand, throwing it immediately to his left. He heard a shout of pain and then a gurgle as it felled the man who had been coming up to flank him.

He forced himself to ignore the fresh pain, breathing it away and letting adrenaline take over. It was dangerous, he knew, to ignore such an injury, but there was little he could do for it now and it would only slow him down to acknowledge it.

The screams of his men dying around him drove him on and he let go of his restraint, fighting with a wild fury.

He felt the rush of impending victory when his fisted backhand sent his enemy spinning to the ground and Aramis' blade laid the man's back open, hip to shoulder. The masked attacker howled in pain, crumbling under the injury. Aramis stalked forward, forcing his wounded leg to hold his weight. He raised his sword to deliver the killing blow.

Another blade crossed his as he brought it down, a man appearing from his right. He was forced back when the new opponent swung his sword up, bringing Aramis' up with it. He stumbled, his wounded leg faltering as his boot caught on a body sprawled out behind him. He found his footing in time to swing his blade in a wide arc, blocking three different attacks from three different men, the two other men coming out of nowhere.

A shout to his left and the crack of gunfire came a moment before one of his opponents fell.

A second fell to Aramis' blade, but before he could face the third, something hard struck the back of his head. He stumbled, feeling hot blood rush down his neck as the world swam around him. He turned drunkenly to face the threat and was forced to lurch back to avoid a swinging blade. His boot caught the same body as before and this time his footing was nowhere to be found. He hit the cold ground hard, sword jarring from his grip. He heard the faint sound of hooves in the snow and twisted, narrowly avoiding getting trampled. Although he saved his ribs, the sharp hoof of the frantic horse clipped him hard across the side of the head.

He thought he heard someone shout his name even as darkness descended.

* * *

Marsac watched Aramis be set upon by three of the attackers. He shouted in fury and raised his freshly loaded pistol, firing into the back of the one nearest him. Aramis swiftly dispatched a second, but Marsac's attention was stolen before he saw the fate of the third when a blade came swinging towards him.

He expertly defended against his newest attacker and drove his sword through the man's heart. Then he turned, eyes searching for his friend.

He watched Aramis stumble, sprawling to the ground. He saw a large man wielding a pistol like a club in one hand with a sword in his other advance towards his friend. Through horrified eyes, he witnessed a horse prance forward in fear. He stared as Aramis tried to twist out of harm's way.

"ARAMIS!" he shouted as the horse's hoof clipped sharply against his friend's head. Then Aramis went still.

Marsac was too far away. He'd never get to him in time if the man decided to finish him off. Marsac fought towards his downed brother anyway. But to his shock, when a sharp nudge with his boot got no response from Aramis, the large attacker moved away, attacking another Musketeer with a shout of fury.

Marsac scurried forward, sheathing his sword and going low. He prayed that the large man's lack of interest did not mean his friend was already dead. He made it to Aramis' side without incident, nearly gagging at the jagged gash on his friend's head, at the blood staining the snow beneath him. With an anguished cry he ripped at his own shirt, using it as a bandage to slow the loss of blood from the wound. That done as well as it could be for the moment, he glanced up. The battle raged around them, but for this brief moment in time no one noticed them. Without hesitating further, he pulled Aramis up, hooking the man's torso over his shoulder and lurched up to standing.

Then, he ran.

It was by some divine mercy that not one soul pursued them.

He'd only just gotten them far enough away for the trees to hide them when a stray root tripped him, sending both he and his precious cargo sprawling to the ground. Marsac scrambled over the cold ground to pull Aramis to him once again. Through it all, his friend did not stir or make a sound.

Pushing aside the worry and fear festering in his gut, Marsac tried to lift Aramis again, but his muscles were shaking with fatigue and it was all he could do to draw Aramis' arm over his shoulder and drag him further away from the fray.

Some distance deeper in the trees, his endurance failed him and he did his best to ease Aramis down against a tree without dropping him completely. Then, with the sound of clashing steel and shouts in the near distance, the reality of what was happening crashed down on him.

He pressed his forehead to Aramis' shoulder, hugging his friend closely to him, and let the fear take hold. They would die here, alone in the snow, struck down by men with no faces. Emotion swelled up in his chest, threatening to choke him. Marsac sat back and looked up at the night sky as hot tears welled in his eyes.

He would die here.

Aramis stirred weakly in his arms, sending energy through Marsac's weary limbs like a jolt of fire. He shifted, resting Aramis more carefully against the tree and looked him over, running a practiced eye over his wounds.

The head wound was worrisome; the bleeding thigh nearly equally so. Then there was the matter of the blood staining his shirt low on his left side.

If he didn't act quickly, Aramis would not survive.

Marsac had been a soldier for many years – since he was eighteen years old. He'd been a Musketeer since he was 21. He had seen many men die from wounds received in battle, even wounds less serious than these.

Infection. That was the greatest worry, as well as loss of blood. Each could kill just as surely as the other.

Marsac checked that Aramis was still soundly unconscious and then started moving through the trees, circling the battle towards where he knew Alain had been sleeping. Alain was the only of them with any formal medical training. He could always be counted on to have bandages and cleansing spirits in his saddle bags.

The forest made moving easy as the natural cover of the trees hid him from sight.

He spotted Alain's saddle bags – Alain himself sprawled next to them, dead – and scurried forward, keeping low. He could barely let himself glance at Alain as he snatched up his saddle bag. He swung it over his shoulder and turned away, only to flatten himself against the ground when a sword cut through the air over his head.

Scrambling back, Marsac fumbled for his own blade, freeing it from its scabbard in time to deflect the next attack. He fought ferociously, one hand on his sword and the other gripping the saddle bag as if his life depended on it. But  _his_  didn't.  _Aramis'_ did.

Finally, he broke through the man's defenses, driving his rapier up through the attacker's chest. Frantic to get back to Aramis before anyone else tried to stop him, Marsac abandoned his blade in the dead man's ribs and ran back into the cover of the trees, saddle bag clutched to his chest.

He barely remembered the journey back to Aramis' side. The long minutes it took were counted only in the stumbled steps through the trees and the harsh breaths bursting from his heaving chest.

When he finally saw familiar brown boots sprawled against the forest floor, Marsac put on an extra burst of speed. He nearly collapsed at Aramis' side, tearing into the saddle bag even as his friend started to stubbornly stir next to him.

"No, no, no…just stay unconscious," Marsac pleaded quietly as he fumbled with the flask of spirits and used his dagger to cut away the fabric covering the wound on Aramis' leg.

As if just to spite him, dazedly unfocused pain-filled brown eyes were suddenly fluttering open.

"M…Mars'c…" Aramis mumbled in confusion.

"Quiet,  _mon ami_ ," Marsac whispered. "I must clean your wounds and you cannot make a sound."

Marsac was all too aware of the battle still waging far too near for comfort.

Aramis' brow furrowed in confusion and his eyes rolled away, skirting the area around them in a fashion that suggested he was not really seeing anything. It was obvious Marsac's words had not been comprehended.

"I'm sorry," he apologized quietly before clamping a hand over Aramis' mouth and upending the flask over the leg wound.

Aramis' scream was muffled by his hand, but still Marsac cast a panicked look back towards the direction of the battle.

"Shhhh," he hissed, clamping down harder. "Shhhh, I'm sorry, but you must be quiet," he pleaded.

Satisfied the wound was as clean as he could make it, Marsac slowly removed his hand.

" _Dios mio…me duele…" (My God…it hurts…)_

"I know," Marsac comforted. Having been friends with Aramis for so many years, Marsac had learned quite a bit of Spanish. He wasn't sure where Aramis had picked up the language or why he'd bothered to learn it to fluency. But he  _did_  know that in times of distress – or in this case debilitating injury – Aramis tended to blend languages, switching back and forth between Spanish and French without warning. It could be confusing if you didn't know to expect it. Marsac, though, was well prepared.

"My head… _me_   _duele_ …" Aramis' fingers fumbled up to touch the hastily applied bandage against his temple.  _"Me Duele…"_

"I know," Marsac repeated. "Please, Aramis, you must be quiet."

He quickly doused the shallow wound on his side with the spirits, brandy by the scent. He had to slap a hand over Aramis' mouth when a scream immediately erupted once again. The head wound, it seemed, had lowered Aramis' usual stoic defenses. He'd known his friend to endure cleaning and stitching of a wound worse than this with nothing but a clenched jaw and muttered curses.

He sent up a silent prayer of thanks when Aramis' eyes suddenly rolled back and he went limp. Though unconsciousness was not a state he liked to see his friend in, right now it was a blessing.

It only took him minutes to finish cleaning and bandaging the wounds. It took even less time to clean the gash on his head and wrap a fresh bandage around it. But still it bled, soaking through the new bandage and trailing down the side of Aramis' face.

He'd done all he could for now. He didn't trust his hands to try and stitch the wound and he didn't have the time. There were still sounds of fighting just out of sight.

Marsac drew in a breath and prepared to rejoin the battle.

He had made it just within sight of the fighting when a scream of pain, abruptly silenced, had him freezing on the spot.

His eyes rose to the fading battle and he watched as the masked attackers swept through the camp, falling upon the remaining Musketeers.

Only four remained.

How were there were so few of his brothers left?

He watched Eric fall with a cry of pain. Then Michel be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

They were all going to die.

He wanted to move. He screamed at himself to defend those brothers who remained until his last breath; to defend Aramis, wounded and alone behind him. It was his duty as a soldier and a Musketeer.

But he found no muscle in his body willing to obey his command

Instead, he stumbled back, retreating to where he'd left Aramis. He slid down to sit next to his friend, pressing his forehead to Aramis' shoulder and concealing himself from sight. One thought repeated like a mantra in his head.

_I don't want to die._

He squeezed his eyes closed and laid there, trembling. He listened around his own shaking breaths, to the screams of his brothers dying without him. He remained, silent as a ghost until long after the last sounds of fighting had faded. He stayed, unmoving, until the sound of their attackers' retreat had long since given way to the groans and cries of the dying.

Still, even when he was certain that the danger had fully passed, Marsac did not rise. It wasn't until the darkness gave way to dawn that he found it in him to move. As he rose, his limbs felt as if they were no longer attached to his body. They felt foreign and cumbersome. It took stubborn will to force them to obey his command.

He wandered away from Aramis, who had not stirred in hours, towards the field of battle. His feet stumbled beneath him as he stepped through the blood stained snow. His boots caught on sprawled limbs and he barely kept his feet.

He turned slowly in a circle, the sounds of men dying around him filling his mind until it was all he could hear. The groans, the cries, the gasps.

There was nothing else.

His legs collapsed beneath him, leaving him on his rear on the cold ground.

He could not move.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, a living man amongst the dead, before movement in the trees drew his attention.

He watched, through clouded eyes as Aramis stumbled towards him.

He saw his friend's mouth move, forming his name, but the call was too quiet to reach him. Or perhaps the sounds of death still ringing in his head were too loud.

Aramis staggered forward, leg nearly giving way beneath him time and again, but still he stubbornly continued on, using trees to support his progress.

Aramis' mouth moved again, his name once more on his friend's lips.

But Marsac could not hear him.

He tore his gaze from Aramis' and looked around him.

The ground was littered with the dead.

And he was not among them.

_My God, what have I become?_

Had he really hidden in the trees like a coward and waited for the danger to pass? Had he betrayed his brothers  _to death_?

Their motto echoed mockingly through his mind.

_All for one, one for all._

He had betrayed all he had claimed to stand for.

He was a coward.

He was weak.

He did not deserve the friendship and brotherhood of the king's elite.

He was not worthy of the pauldron resting on his shoulder.

He was no Musketeer.

Not anymore. Perhaps had never been. No true Musketeer would have cowered in the shadows and let his brothers die.

He met Aramis' disoriented gaze. He saw the pain and the confusion swirling in the dark depths of his eyes.

All at once, the world rushed back into focus and Aramis' shaking voice reached his ears.

"Mars'c…what h'pp'ned?" Aramis slurred, swaying precariously and sinking to one knee as he braced himself against a tree. "M's'c?"

Aramis' brow creased in pain, his right hand reaching to touch his head.

" _¿Que p'só?"_   _(What happened?)_  he mumbled, clutching at the tree as his body swayed again.

"I failed you," Marsac answered blankly. He knew he should move to help his friend, his last living brother in the forest. But he was numb, his limbs no longer obeying his commands. "I failed _them_."

Aramis blinked, brow drawn together in confusion, and tried to straighten. The effort cost him and he paled, doubling over and retching on the ground.

Marsac watched him, but made no move to help. He couldn't. What use would he be anyway?

"I failed them," he repeated.

Aramis drew himself back up on shaking arms, clinging to the tree next to him as he fought his way back to his feet.

"¿ _C...cómo?_ "  _(H...how?)_ Aramis asked, limping forward again, only to gasp and clutch at his head, reaching back blindly for the support of the tree he'd just left.

Marsac's hand twitched as if to reach out for him, but that was all. Why could he not move? Why could he not muster the will to help his brother?

 _We're going to die here_. The poisonous thought whispered through his mind.

"Mars'c?" Aramis forced his eyes open and looked at him again, eyes pleading, questioning.

"I'm not fit to be a Musketeer," Marsac told him vacantly, feeling none of the emotion that should be tied to such a confession. He felt nothing, perhaps never would again. "I abandoned my brothers to die. I failed them."

Aramis stared at him, brown eyes narrowed in pain and confusion.

For a long moment Marsac just stared back.

Then, rising up from some buried part of his soul, his limbs found the strength to move. He knew now what he had to do. The path became so painfully clear.

With hands steadier than they'd been in hours, he reached up and pulled at his pauldron, ripping it from his shoulder and letting it fall, abandoned, to the forest floor.

"Marsac?" Aramis stated again, voice the strongest it had been since he'd appeared through the trees.

Marsac met his friend, his  _brother's_ , gaze and tried to convey everything he could not say.

_I failed._

_I'm not worthy._

_I'm a coward._

_I'm sorry._

Something of the unspoken confession must have translated through the space between them because Aramis' bewildered gaze sparked with a brief moment of clarity.

"Mars'c…" He was slurring again. "Don't…"

The plea, Marsac thought, should inspire something in him. It should make him  _feel_  something. But instead, he felt nothing at all.

It was easier than it should have been to turn his back on Aramis.

His steps were steadier than they should have been as he walked away.

"Marsac?" There was clarity ringing in Aramis' voice again, and a healthy dose of fear and panic.

The memory of the battle, the battle he had not fought, rose once again in his mind, overtaking everything else as he walked away.

If Aramis called out for him again, he did not hear it.

* * *

"Marsac?" Aramis questioned, so terribly confused as his friend turned and walked away.

His mind was a jumbled mess, nothing but disjointed thoughts and echoing sounds. But through all the confusion and the ever-present haze of pain, he was excruciatingly certain of one thing.

Marsac had cast off his pauldron. Marsac had abandoned his duty.

"Marsac!" he called as his brother drew farther away.

Aramis pushed away from the tree that was supporting him, stumbling forward. He made it barely a step before his legs betrayed him, sending him crashing to his knees. His head throbbed mercilessly and his leg screamed out in agony, but he pushed the pain aside.

"MARSAC!" he shouted, reaching out a hand towards his brother's retreating back.

Marsac did not turn, did not even seem to hear him.

He didn't understand. Why would Marsac leave him here, wounded on the battlefield? He tried to stand, to follow him. But the pain in his leg prevented him from rising. He looked down at the stained bandage. Then, beyond the bloody rag, he saw the snow beneath his knees. Snow stained red.

He raised his head slowly, eyes moving to take in the scene around him.

He remembered then, what he'd forgotten in his confusion, pain, and panic at Marsac's retreat.

The attack. The masked men.

_His brothers._

His breathing turned ragged as he looked around.

Death. There was nothing but death around him.

Death and Marsac. Marsac had survived.

He remembered then, the look he'd seen on Marsac's face. Shame and devastation.

" _I failed them,"_ he had said.  _"I abandoned my brothers to death."_

And all at once, he  _knew_  what Marsac had done.

He raised his gaze once again, seeing Marsac's form growing farther and farther away.

Panic gripped him, pushing aside his horror at this new revelation.

"Don't leave me here!" he begged, shouting as loud as he could manage. "MARSAC!"

But now Marsac was gone, vanished into the trees.

"Don't leave me here…" he repeated breathlessly.

Aramis stared after him with panting breaths, his abused head unable to comprehend the true depth of what was happening.

His heart pounded, his head throbbing in time with the rapid beat.

He couldn't think. He could barely breathe.

The world around him spun, a dizzying swirl of white and red dancing before his wavering vision.

Only one thought remained, ringing clearly in his mind.

Marsac.

Marsac had abandoned him.

Marsac had left him alone to die in a field of their murdered brothers.

"Marsac…" The whispered call was carried on the back of a shaky breath as consciousness betrayed him and his body collapsed back to the snowy forest floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Three
> 
> And so the tragedy of Savoy has found us. Ever since we saw Aramis' stilted flashbacks to this in show, I wanted to put the massacre into a story. That episode is what spawned this whole universe! So we are only 3 chapters in and we've seen the massacre - now we get to see the aftermath and the winding, troubled path to recovery. More to come tomorrow!
> 
> Please drop me a line if you feel so inclined :)
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn*
> 
> Porthos was startled from his thoughts when a horse came through the gate at a fast canter, coming to an abrupt stop as the rider vaulted from the saddle.
> 
> "Captain!" the man shouted as he ran up the steps to Treville's office.
> 
> He made it to the door just as Treville opened it.
> 
> Porthos watched, wide eyed as they both disappeared inside.
> 
> Something sour settled in his stomach.
> 
> Something had gone terribly wrong somewhere. He could feel it.


	4. In My Weakness I Am Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Three: Thimblerig, shanachie, Lady_Neve, BourbonRose, Daisy_Chain, rigal99, issa, and HLN

 

 

_I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at.  
_ _**Maya Angelou** _

* * *

_March 29, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Encampment, Savoy_

* * *

_Aramis watched as his men practiced their swordplay. His own rapier was still tucked away in its scabbard. His turn at this drill would come soon enough. First, however, his priority was making sure the men he'd paired off were properly matched enough for the exercise to be beneficial to both parties._

_He was studying Alain and Eric as they moved when snow Aramis had failed to notice falling caught on his eyelashes, forcing him to blink. When his gaze found the dueling pair again, their clothes were bloody and torn and both wore masks that hid their faces._

_Aramis took a startled step forward, but another blink and the blood and masks were gone as if they had never been there at all._

" _You failed them."_

_Marsac's voice was cold and hard, a tone Aramis had never heard from his brother before. He turned sharply, worried he had done something to anger the other Musketeer._

_Marsac's face was covered in blood._

" _You failed_ _ **me**_ _," he accused angrily. He lunged at Aramis with a shout, a black mask flickering in and out of existence over his face._

_Aramis retreated several stumbled steps, hand flying to his sword. But his fingers grasped uselessly at nothing but air. He looked down in confusion to see his scabbard empty. Likewise, his main gauche and pistols were missing._

_The sound of crunching snow brought his gaze back up and he stared in horror as he was surrounded on all sides by men in masks._

" _You failed us all, Aramis!" Marsac's voice rang out._

_Aramis gave a start as they all abruptly vanished. He was suddenly alone in the trees with nothing but the early morning fog._

" _Marsac?" he called out._

There _. Movement in the trees. He saw Marsac staring at him._

" _Marsac, what's happening?" he asked, starting towards him. But Marsac just stared at him. "Marsac?"_

_With a slow blink Marsac turned and started away from him._

" _Marsac?!"_

_Aramis made to step after him, but pulled up short when two blades crossed each other with a ringing of steel just in front of him. He stumbled back, away from the duel, and turned. There was a battle raging around him. The sound of steel on steel rang loudly in Aramis' head, which now pounded painfully with every beat of his heart. He stumbled as his legs abruptly threatened to go out from under him and pain blossomed on his side even as he became aware of the warm wetness of blood soaking his shirt._

_The pain in his head magnified as the sounds of battle grew louder, almost deafening…_

* * *

Aramis woke abruptly, eyes flashing open at the sound of clashing steel.

He surged drunkenly to his feet, numb hands finding the hilt of a fallen sword by instinct alone and bringing it up in defense. He parried clumsily, his legs threatening to give out. The world swam around him, the snow a dizzying array of white and red.

He swung the sword, sure he was moments from being skewered.

But no blade fell. No point pierced his frozen skin.

He stumbled, boots catching on something soft, and he fell, the world going momentarily black. When his vision hazily returned, he drew in a shuddering breath. The sounds of battle had faded, perhaps never having been there at all.

Clumsily, he tried to move his legs, lifting his throbbing head to see what had tripped him.

Another boot was tangled with his. He blinked blankly, unable to process what his eyes were showing him.

He followed the boot up the leg it was covering, across a bloody torso to a bloody face.

Jacques.

Energy surged through his veins like a bolt of lightning. His hands dug frantically into the snow and he pushed away from the unseeing eyes of his friend. He scrambled backwards through the snow until his hands met resistance.

He twisted, eyes widening as his realized he'd retreated into another body.

Lamar.

Nausea that had been lingering like a predator waiting to pounce overcame him and he was violently sick. When he finally forced his heaving stomach back under control, he dragged a shaking hand over his mouth and tried to catch his breath.

He raised his gaze then, taking in the gruesome scene around him.

The dead were everywhere.

Like a shot from a pistol he was suddenly moving, numb hands resting on the chests of the fallen, feeling for movement, feeling for the rise of breath. He knew already his icy fingers would not be able to feel the pulse of blood through veins. But as long as there was breath, there was life.

One by one, he stumbled from body to body. Twice more he expelled the contents of his stomach, though there was little to be rid of but acidic bile which left him painfully heaving only air.

One by one, he found his brothers dead.

Until Remy.

It was so faint he almost missed it, but the movement of his ribs was there. Aramis shook the unconscious man and calling his name.

"Remy!" he shouted, voice hoarse.

There was no response. He scanned his brother's body, finding a deep bloody gash in the man's temple but no other injury. His hand drifted to brush across his own throbbing head and he was startled to find a bandage there. He didn't know who had tended him, or where that person was now, but at least it spurred him into action. He tore a strip off his own shirt, carefully winding the cloth around Remy's head. He frowned worriedly when there was a faint give beneath his fingers as he brushed across the place of Remy's wound. He did not know what that might mean, but he knew that there was little he could do regardless. He reached for a nearby abandoned bedroll and spread the blanket over the fallen Musketeer.

Having exhausted what little he knew of tending injuries, he sat back, at a loss for what else to do.

"I will return, brother," he promised the unconscious man before rising on unsteady legs to continue his search.

He was disappointed six more times before he found another rising chest.

Michel.

The gaping wound in the man's gut had Aramis wondering how he still managed to cling to life.

"I'm here," Aramis assured quietly as he ripped more of his shirt, binding the wound as best he could. He retrieved another bed roll and covered him as he had Remy. He was just mustering the strength to keep searching when a weak moan had every one of his muscles locking up.

A glance at Michel's face revealed fluttering eyelids and faintly parted lips. Simultaneously energized and terrified by this development, Aramis crowded closer, hovering over his comrade and lightly touching the side of his face.

"Michel," he called gently, urging the other man to consciousness.

He was rewarded by a glimpse at Michel's green gaze. A moment later, the fallen soldier managed to force his eyes open more steadily, blinking blearily at Aramis through a haze of fresh moisture.

"A'mis?"

"Yes, I'm here, brother. You're going to be fine," he lied, not daring to let his gaze drift down to the bloody, deadly wound on Michel's gut. "You'll be fine," he assured again, careful to keep his voice gentle and calm – betraying none of his own fear and anxiety.

"H-h'lp m-m-me…" Michel pleaded in a soft, broken voice, breaths stuttering with pain and weakness.

"Of course I will," Aramis promised, lifting Michel's hand from the ground to wrap it between both of his. "I'll help you and you'll be fine."

Green eyes stayed locked on him, never straying, barely blinking. Aramis did not dare look away.

"H'lp-p m-me…" Michel begged again, voice fading even as he spoke.

Aramis swallowed thickly, tightening his hold on the hand between his.

"I will," he vowed when all he wanted to say was  _'I'm sorry'_.

Michel's gaze relaxed slightly, losing a bit of focus as he stared at Aramis.

"You'll be fine," he lied again even as his heart cried out  _'I don't know what to do.'_

He felt the feeble strength in Michel's fingers trickle away to nothing and watched, never looking away, as the spark of life faded from his eyes.

"Michel?" he whispered when something eerily  _still_  stole across the fallen soldier's features.

But Aramis knew there would be no answer. Michel was gone. Stolen away to rest forever with his brothers.

" _Lo siento, mi hermano,"_   _(I'm sorry, my brother,)_  Aramis whispered raggedly, reaching with a shaking hand to gently close Michel's eyes. "I'm so very sorry."

It took a long time for him to force himself to move, to relinquish Michel's cold hand and continue his search. And even as he moved on, leaving Michel behind, he could not forget those green eyes, locked on his, or that shaking voice, begging for help.

Help he could not give. Help he did not know  _how_ to give.

Four more dead Musketeers and his search ended.

There was no one else. Whichever attackers had been killed, those who survived had apparently spirited away the bodies of their comrades.

There was no one else.

Except…

"Marsac?" he spoke the name uncertainly, reviewing the faces of the dead in his mind.

No, Marsac had not been among them.

He pushed to his feet, stumbling a step before his balance betrayed him – whether it was the head or knife wound that made him weak didn't really matter. Either way he was on the ground again.

"Marsac!" he called out, throat tightening painfully. There was no response to his shout, no stirring in the trees, no movement in the snow.

He was alone.

Except he wasn't – Remy.

Aramis scrambled back towards his only surviving brother. Once there, he searched the area. Finding an abandoned doublet in the snow, he shrugged into it and wrapped the worn leather around his body, shivering against the cold.

"Remy," he called, touching his brother's shoulder. " _Estoy aquí, hermano_."  _(I'm here, brother.)_

Remy didn't stir. Aramis pressed his palm to Remy's chest, holding his breath until he felt the vague rise and fall against his hand. He lowered his throbbing head to rest against Remy's arm, keeping his palm pressed against the injured man's ribs as darkness consumed him again.

* * *

A faint flutter against his palm drew Aramis back to consciousness and he forced his eyes open. His head was down, forehead pressed against something cold but soft. Another stuttering movement against his hand brought a hazy memory fluttered through his mind.

Remy.

His head snapped up so fast his vision swam drunkenly and it was all he could do not to once again heave up food he didn't have in his stomach.

When his vision steadied, he studied Remy's face, pressing his hand harder against his chest.

Another vague stuttering breath, a pause, a faint exhale, then…nothing.

"No…" Aramis tightened his hand into a fist, twisting it into Remy's shirt. "NO!"

He could only stare, eyes wide and disbelieving.

His gaze shifted to the makeshift bandage on Remy's head, puzzling over how it got there. And as he wondered about that he started trying to recall how he had come to be at Remy's side. His recent memory was a stilted, broken thing. Few events remained in any semblance of order and those that did were muddled and hazy.

He drew in a slow controlled breath. He had to focus. If Remy had been alive, there could be others. Remy couldn't be the only one to survive.

He would check the others for signs of life.

He slowly climbed to his hands and knees, then pushed carefully to his feet.

He stumbled from body to body, checking patiently for other survivors. He found not one. He collapsed numbly to his knees in the middle of the carnage, gaze shifting slowly from body to body.

His heart started to pound harder within his chest, increasing the throbbing in his head.

The roaming of his gaze grew more frantic as the truth of his dire situation started to make itself known.

He was alone.

Alone in field of the dead.

Where was Marsac?

Had he found his body?

Confused thoughts tumbled together, making his head throb even worse.

"Dead," he whispered as the light around him dimmed. " _Todos muertos_ …"  _(All dead…)_  he mumbled.

All dead. All but him.

The light in the forest dimmed further. Had night fallen so quickly?

Cold wetness seeped into his back and he realized he was on the ground, staring up at the dimming sky.

Or maybe it wasn't the sky that was dimming after all…

* * *

_March 30, 1625_

_Musketeer Encampment, Savoy_

* * *

When he woke again, it was to darkness.

He rolled his head to the left, gaze landing immediately on the bloody face of a fellow Musketeer.

He scrambled to sitting, limbs heavy and numb with cold. His breath crystallized before his face as he looked around the camp, eyes skipping from one body to the next.

_Dios mio… (My God…)_

The field was painted in red, the bodies of his fellow Musketeers scattered around him like leaves fallen from a tree. He crawled frantically through the snow to the nearest of the bodies, pressing his hand hard on the fallen man's chest, feeling for signs of life.

There was none. His eye caught sight of a bandage wrapped around another fallen soldier's head. His leg would not support him long, but he managed to make it to the man's side.

Remy.

His search found no vital signs, but someone had put that bandage there, hastily applied as it was.

He raised his gaze again, searching the immediate area.

There was no movement but that of the trees rustling in the wind.

But someone had to be here, someone had to have treated Remy's wound.

A faint, disjointed memory of Marsac walking through the snow rolled through his mind.

"Marsac," he whispered in relief.

Marsac was alive. Feeling a renewed sense of purpose, Aramis forced himself to standing. He snatched up a stick and grasped it as a cane to help him move towards his friend.

Marsac had surely gone for wood to make a fire, to keep them warm until help arrived.

Aramis made slow, painful progress through the field of battle.

"Marsac?" he called warily, picking his way carefully through the trees. He leaned heavily on his walking stick as he searched for his friend.

Marsac was nowhere near.

He had not responded to his calls.

The darkness had begun to give away to dawn by the time he stumbled back to the camp.

Aramis slowed to a stop when he saw the scene awaiting him upon his return.

Crows.

Crows were feasting on his fallen brothers.

Somewhere deep within, he found the strength to run.

"Hey!" he shouted, waving his stick like a blade. "Leave them be,  _demonios_!"  _(devils!)_

The birds scattered at his shout, fleeing with panicked caws.

When the last one had disappeared into the sky, Aramis felt his strength leave him.

He melted to his knees, eyes scanning the unmoving forms of his brothers.

Had any survived? As he pressed his hand to the chest of the one nearest him, his eyes settled on the fallen soldier's face.

The skin had gone beyond pale, had shifted to an odd tinge of blue.

This man was dead…had been for hours now, or days.

Aramis looked around in confusion, hand drifting to his head. He drew it back in shock when his numb fingers brushed a bandage, igniting new pain in his already throbbing skull.

Had he been injured? When had he…?

He shook his head slowly in confusion, looking down again at the near frozen body next to him.

How many times had he checked this man for life? How many times had he stumbled from body to body, hoping to find a brother alive?

Vague, blurred memories floated through his mind.

_Todos muertos…_

He closed his eyes in sorrow. His head injury was severe, that much had just become clear. Any of his brothers that may have needed his help had not gotten it. He'd been too lost in his own confusion to be of any use.

But there was one thing he could do for his fallen brothers.

He carefully took the nearest hand he could find into his own and ritualistically touched the man's forehead with the other.

"Go with God, Alain," he murmured before closing his eyes and offering a brief prayer. It was not much, as last rites went, but he was so very tired. He did not think God would fault him for the brevity. He had an entire camp full of brothers to perform it for, after all.

And so he slowly made his way through his fallen comrades, offering up one final prayer for their souls, until he found himself at Michel's side.

As he stared down at the murdered Musketeer, a whisper of a memory fluttered through his mind.

" _H-h'lp m-m-me…"_

A flash of fading green eyes appeared before him and he watched for a second time as the light in them was snuffed out. And once again, he felt the weight of his helpless failure.

"Go with God, Michel… _Lo siento mucho_."  _(I'm so sorry.)_ He closed his eyes and drew a breath, saying the final prayer for his last brother.

He would die here, among them. All men must die and his day had come.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes, turning them towards the heavens, drawing in a breath to do his best to prepare himself for death. But something just on the edge of his vision caught his eye.

The remnants of a fire.

He blinked and cast a curious glance back up at the early morning sky.

A sign from God?

Perhaps it was not yet his day to die after all.

He blamed the wound on his head for not thinking of it sooner. Pushing to his feet with a frantic sort of determination, he stumbled through the trees with the aid of his walking stick, retrieving as much wood as he could carry in one arm.

Perhaps a fire would bring the enemy back down upon him, but it hardly mattered now.

Without it, the cold would claim him and he'd much rather die by the sword.

It took a pitifully long amount of time, but eventually he had a fire burning.

He curled as close to it as he could without setting his skin alight and prayed to God that it would be enough.

Death may still come for him yet, but he would not greet it willingly.

This was not his day to die.

* * *

_March 31, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Garrison, Paris_

* * *

Porthos idly dug the point of his main gauche into the top of the table as he sat in the yard. Most others were on duty at the moment and he was scheduled to relieve Pierre at the palace in an hour.

Aramis had been gone now for two long weeks. He was not due back for two more.

The Garrison was lonely without him; quieter too.

For as much as he'd  _known_  Aramis was a beacon of light amongst them, he hadn't truly appreciated it until the other man was gone. It was as Porthos imagined it would be had he never met Aramis at all. He was alone and adrift amongst his supposed brethren.

Things  _had_  improved in some ways. Aramis had been right, that night in the tavern, when he'd encouraged Porthos to see the positives in being left behind.

He had proven his place here. He had gained the respect of those that remained, when it came to his duty at least. He'd worked long and hard and had done his best to show them his worth.

They no longer looked at him as if he did not belong among them.

But neither did they invite him to their tables or offer any other overtures of friendship. His own attempts to bridge that divide had been brushed aside or politely declined.

They accepted him as a comrade, but did not want to be his friend.

He had Aramis, though, and that would be enough.

Thoughts of the marksman had him thinking of the letter Treville had shared with him several days ago. The first half of it had been a proper report and update on the training mission. But the second half had all but glowed with the bright energy that was Aramis.

He'd told jokes and stories about the trip so far. As Treville had let him read it, Porthos had nearly been able to hear Aramis' light laughter rising off the page.

The marksman finished the letter with an earnest plea for Treville to have Porthos look after Esmé, who had tweaked her leg on a loose cobblestone only moments after Aramis had ridden her out of the Garrison. She'd been returned to her stall and a replacement mount had been saddled. Aramis had fretted over her for as long as he could before he'd been forced to be on his way.

Porthos had looked in on her several times, assuring her in as soothing a voice as he could manage that her master would be home soon. She had looked at him oddly every time, as if Porthos had no business bothering her during her convalescence.

But two days ago something had changed. Porthos had gone to see her before breakfast and she'd been nearly frantic in her stall, kicking at the door until she had finally worn herself out. Porthos had stayed with her a long time after that, trying to coax her into eating, but she refused.

She'd been in the same depressed state ever since, though he'd been able to convince her to eat an apple here and there.

When he had mentioned the odd behavior to Treville, the man had frowned and then shaken his head.

" _She's always been temperamental. She misses Aramis, that's all."_

And she wasn't the only one. Porthos was not ashamed to admit he missed the other man as well. Even Treville seemed to feel his absence. Porthos had seen him, more than once, look to his side and open his mouth, only to shut it when he realized no one was standing at his shoulder.

Porthos was startled from his thoughts when a horse came through the gate at a fast canter, coming to an abrupt stop as the rider vaulted from the saddle.

"Captain!" the man shouted as he ran up the steps to Treville's office.

He made it to the door just as Treville opened it.

Porthos watched, wide eyed as they both disappeared inside.

Something sour settled in his stomach.

Something had gone terribly wrong somewhere. He could feel it.

Not more than two minutes later Treville came bursting from his office.

"Porthos!" he shouted as he all but flew down the stairs.

"Captain?" he replied, instantly rising.

"Gather your things and pack your horse. Demonte! Gaston!" The two men Treville shouted for appeared from the stable. "Pack your horses! We leave immediately!"

"Where are we going?" Porthos asked before he could reign in his tongue.

The look the captain sent him chilled him right to his core.

"Savoy."

* * *

In ten minutes' time they were riding hard out of Paris. They barely slowed until the horses tired. Then, they simply exchanged their mounts for fresh ones at the next town and continued their frantic pace.

It wasn't until night had deeply fallen that Treville slowed and ordered them to make camp.

Porthos, Gaston, and Demonte obeyed immediately, all of them exhausted. They saw to the horses and quickly made a fire, tearing into their rations and reclining on their bedrolls.

Treville sat pensively on a fallen log and stared into the flames.

"Captain?" Gaston prodded carefully. "What's happened?"

Treville shook himself, as if waking from a trance. He took a deep breath and met each of their eyes in turn.

"I received an emergency dispatch, carried by a pigeon to the palace and then brought to me." He shook his head and rubbed at his beard. "I'd sent a scout after them, something in my gut not letting me rest."

"After Aramis and the men?" Demonte questioned.

Treville nodded.

Porthos felt his mouth go dry and his rations suddenly lost their taste.

"What did the dispatch say?" he asked warily.

Treville met his eyes across the dancing flames of the fire.

"Our men in Savoy were attacked, massacred in the night."

The blunt statement seemed to forcefully draw the air from Porthos' lungs.

"All of them?" Gaston gasped, face gone suddenly pale.

Treville nodded solemnly.

"The dispatch said no survivors."

Porthos collapsed back onto his bedroll, staring up at the stars.

Twenty-two men, gone.

_Aramis._

Aramis and his kind eyes and teasing grin. Dead.

Porthos turned his head, looking at Treville with horrified eyes.

The captain was pale, eyes fixed on the flames once more. He spoke again without looking at them.

"We ride hard. We exchange our horses in whatever town is convenient. When we near Savoy, we'll commandeer a cart." Treville's voice broke as he went on. "We'll bring them home."

Porthos raised his eyes back to the heavens, thinking of the cross Aramis always wore around his neck, of the God his friend had always spoken of with reverence.

What God did this? What God robbed the world of twenty-two honorable, brave men? No matter their treatment of him, he knew without a doubt that not one of them had deserved such a fate.

_And Aramis…_

What God put a man who shone as brightly as Aramis into the world only to snuff him out so cruelly?

Out of nowhere, Porthos thought of Esmé.

She would never be the same after this. She would never be ridden again. She would never eagerly poke her head out of her stall at the sound of her master's voice. She'd lost the only friend she had in this world.

And she had known it days ago. Her frantic behavior made sense now. Her depression even more.

She had known he was gone.

Hot tears stung his eyes and threatened to fall. He did not bother to hold them back, instead he just rolled away from the fire so the others did not see.

Esmé had lost her only friend.

And in that moment, it felt that so had he.

* * *

_April 3, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Encampment, Savoy_

* * *

" _Mamá…"_ Aramis mumbled as consciousness sluggishly returned. Her voice, carried to him on a gentle breeze, whispered through his thoughts as he clutched at the memory from his dream. He'd dreamt of her – of her smile, her voice. He dreamt of her arms around him, warming him. Of her lips on his brow, kissing away the pain.

He blinked up at the branches above him, trying vainly to remember when he'd last felt anything but pain, the last time he'd been truly warm.

_Sé valiente, mi pequeño aventurero. Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero. Sé amable, mi pequeño amor._

" _Mamá…"_ he called again as her voice floated through his mind.

Her final words to him, spoken thirteen long years ago, brought tears to his eyes.

_Be brave, my little adventurer. Be strong, my little warrior. Be kind, my little love._

"I'm sorry," he whispered.  _"Lo siento mucho, Mamá."_  ( _I'm so sorry, Mama._ )

The mixing languages fumbled off his tongue, drawing his wavering attention to the fact that he'd spoken both French and Spanish. This realization galvanized him to focus more fully on his situation.

Since he was a child, in moments of distress or pain, he tended to blend languages. His mother had been a full blooded Spaniard and had brought him up with that language on her tongue. But he had also been raised within French borders and had learned the native language hand in hand with the Spanish spoken within their family.

He was fluent in both, able to switch between them without a thought, often confusing those around him when the situation warranted it. It had been convenient, having been raised on the border of Spain, to be able to pretend to be whichever nationality suited him in the moment.

But there had been times in his life when he unintentionally blended languages, and what he'd learned from those events was that he only ever spoke Spanish without actually  _realizing_  it when something was horribly wrong.

He'd done this when he'd argued with his father that final time, years ago now. He'd been so angry, so  _hurt_ , by all that had happened. He'd not realized that he had been changing back and forth between French and Spanish until his father had yelled at him to stop speaking 'that cursed tongue'. The conversation, which had already been rapidly declining, had deteriorated even further. That fight had ended with him being summarily disowned. All that had made him René d'Herblay had been stripped away forever, leaving only Aramis. It had been a relief, in the end, to return to the name his mother had given him. To leave his father, his world of lies, and the d'Herblay name behind.

He'd mixed languages after the mess with Medina as well. Treville had found him, bleeding and dying from a musket ball to the chest, and he'd slurred back and forth between his two native tongues. He hadn't known it then, either, until Treville had quietly whispered that he did not understand. Treville, he later learned, had made it a point to learn the Spanish language after that.

He groaned and forced himself to rise onto his elbows.

His head throbbed, threatening to send him crashing right back down.

_Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero. (Be strong, my little warrior.)_

Stubbornly clenching his jaw, Aramis forced himself up the rest of the way into a hunched sitting position. Blearily, he looked around him.

A tin cup was on the ground next to him, the water in it – snow melted by his fire so he did not die of thirst – had frozen solid. He blinked at it and then shifted it back to rest in the coals of the fire.

How much time had passed? How many days had it been?

He did not know. He'd lost too much time, due to unconsciousness and exhaustion both, to keep track of when day moved to night and back. The effects of his head wound had slowly started to fade. He'd woken some time ago – days perhaps? Or only hours? – to a gnawing hunger. His head, though it still pounded mercilessly, had been clear enough to urge him to search for food. He'd huddled into a second doublet as well, and had the presence of mind to warm rocks on the fire – and keeping  _that_  alive through his unpredictable bouts of unconsciousness had been a difficult chore – and then wrap them in scavenged cloths, tucking them into his borrowed doublets to warm his chest.

He could not help but think it was all for nothing.

The horses – as he'd found during one of his more lucid times of wakefulness – had been slaughtered and left to rot where they lay. He'd considered walking for help, but no matter how he tried, he could not seem to remember where exactly he was or where civilization might be found. Wandering aimlessly seemed a foolish thing to do, wounded as he was.

So he was left to wait for help that did not know to come.

He would die here, alone but for those already dead.

He had survived so much in his short life; he'd faced more than his fair share of dangers.

To have survived Darío Medina, and before that to have survived the overzealous command of Captain Barteaux, and earlier still to have survived the cruelty and lies of his father's world…

And he was going to die slowly and alone in a snowy forest, surrounded by his dead brothers.

He was so tired. Tired of fighting to survive when it was for  _nothing_. It was a losing battle.

Who was he to argue if God had decided today was his day to die?

_Se valiente, mi pequeño aventurero. (Be brave, my little adventurer.)_

Be brave. He wanted to be, for her sake, but he did not know if he had it left in him to be anything anymore.

A sudden snarl had the poisonous and desolating thoughts receding in a flash.

His gaze sharpened, senses straining to place the unfamiliar sound.

He looked to his fire again. It was all but burned out. The rocks hidden in his doublet had cooled some time ago judging by the icy feeling of them against his chest.

He realized, with a dangerous sort of apathy, that he wasn't shivering quite as much as he had been when he'd fallen asleep. In fact, he didn't feel nearly as cold as he should.

Another snarl had him raising his gaze beyond the smoldering sticks.

Glowing yellow eyes met his across the fading embers of the fire.

A wolf.

A demon, sent by hell to claim him.

_Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero. (Be strong, my little warrior.)_

This was not his day to die. Not yet. Not like this. He would be strong.

He slowly slid his hand into his doublet, retrieving one of the rocks. The wolf growled, it's lips drawn back in a snarl as it regarded him. With numb fingers, he grasped his rock tightly and then threw it with all his might.

It smacked the wolf right in the snout, eliciting a pained yelp.

"¡ _Vete al infierno, demonio!" (Go to hell, demon!)_ he shouted. "Go!"

The wolf snarled again, retreating a step. It eyed his frozen brothers, seeming to realize they were easier prey.

"Not while I live!" Aramis growled, snatching a fallen sword from the snow and lurching across the glowing embers of the fire. "You'll not have them either,  _demonio_!" ( _demon!)_

He slashed at the wolf and it bared its teeth, snapping viciously at him.

It was a victory, of sorts. He had drawn its attention away from his defenseless brethren and squarely back to himself. It circled, a feral growl rising in its throat.

"Come then," he taunted, leading the animal further into the trees, away from his brothers.

One benefit of the icy temperatures was that his body was mostly numb; whatever pain he should be feeling may as well not exist. It made keeping his leg beneath him a less impossible task.

" _Veremos quien muera hoy," (We will see who dies today,)_ he snarled at the wolf as it circled him.

In response, the animal simply lunged for his throat. Aramis' waiting blade slid through the beast's chest, its weight bringing him heavily to the ground. The back of his head thumped painfully against the forest floor, sending sparks of white exploding across his vision.

For a long time he just laid there, the body of the wolf sprawled uncomfortably across his chest. When he finally did muster the strength and will to wriggle out from under the beast, it was only really because he was startled out of his apathy by the sprinkle of rain on his face. Even so, it took a pitifully long amount of time and more energy than he had to give.

By the time he was free of the creature's weight, Aramis was spent.

The rain continued to fall, heavier than it had before. And though the leather of his borrowed doublets would protect him for a time, it was not a permanent solution. He knew he needed to get back to his fire and erect some sort of shelter over it so the rain would not put it out. He knew if he didn't, his chances of survival fell considerably.

He found, though, that he lacked the strength to stand, much less  _walk_. So he dug his elbows into the forest floor and dragged himself away from the wolf. He fixed his gaze on the sputtering flame and threw every last bit of  _everything_  he had into getting to it.

He hardly noticed the pulsing pain in his head. When the world started blurring around him, he ignored it. He didn't hear his own voice as he gasped out a desperate litany of practiced prayers in a mixture of languages. His focus was narrowed, intent only on his goal.

He watched through fading vision, still too far away to stop it, as his fire finally gave up the fight and sputtered out. Still, though, he clawed his way towards it. It was either that or give up and surrender to inevitable death. He'd never had it in him to give up on anything, even when he should. It was this ingrained stubbornness that kept him moving right up until his vision flickered out and consciousness fled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Four
> 
> A bit early tonight because my oldest is staying the night at his grandparents so I had one less minion (I mean child) to put to bed.
> 
> So Treville and Porthos are on the way! Aramis is in bad shape, though, hope they're fast enough ;) We've been moving through days, as tracked in the 'time stamp' type notations at the start of certain sections. That should give you an idea of the passage of time. Tune in tomorrow for the next addition to this tale!
> 
> Drop me a line if you feel inclined. I love me a review to brighten up my days!
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "Oh God," Porthos breathed, eyes stinging as he took in the bandages and the blood. Aramis had survived the attack. He'd been out here, alone, amidst a field of the dead while that cursed scout drank himself to oblivion.
> 
> "Here!" he called out hoarsely around the lump in his throat. He pressed his hand against Aramis' chest, already dreading the stillness he feared would greet him. "It's Aramis," he announced, voice tight. "He's…" he was ready to say 'dead'. The word had formed on his lips.
> 
> But then, so faint he'd nearly missed it, there was a weak rise of ribs against his palm. Sure he had imagined it, he leaned over, pressing his ear to the man's chest. A faint, but steady thump was his reward.
> 
> "Alive…" he breathed in shock. Then hope flooded him. "He's alive!" He shouted to the others.


	5. It's Your Love That Brings Me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Four: Thimblerig, rockinghorse, shanachie, Scarlett77, Lady_Neve, HLN, BourbonRose, Mademoisellesnowflake, and issa
> 
> PS: before I forget again, special thanks to my beta, Arlothia's boyfriend for going over all the Spanish parts of this fic for me! Without him this would have been all relying on Google-Translate so he saved us all lol.

 

_He ain't heavy, he's my brother.  
_ _**The Hollies** _

* * *

_April 3, 1625  
_ _Outlying village, Savoy_

* * *

Porthos looked up at the tavern before him with a weary sigh and tipped his hat to be rid of some of the rain that had accumulated there. His heavy cloak had done its best to protect him, but after a time even it could do little to stop the rain from its thorough attempts to drown him.

His companions had fared little better. Even Treville looked waterlogged and miserable.

The rain, when it had started an hour ago, had slowed them down, but finally they'd reached Savoy.

Or rather, they'd reached a village near the forest that had become their brothers' grave. According to Treville, Aramis had planned to camp not far from here.

"Gaston, Demonte, find someone willing to part with a cart. Assure them they'll be paid. I know it's late, but I want to leave at first light."

The two other Musketeers, looking as weary as Porthos felt, nodded and turned their horses away from the tavern.

"Come now," Treville slid from his saddle. "Nothing more to be done tonight."

Porthos slid from his saddle with a groan. They handed off their horses to a stable boy and then he quietly followed his captain into the tavern, nearly running into the man when he froze just inside the door.

"Oi," he mumbled irritably, stepping around him and into the warmth of the room.

"Anton," Treville snapped the name sharply, startling Porthos into searching the room for a threat. He watched a bobbing head spin to watch them. Treville strode forward. "What are you doing here?"

"Dead," the drunk man, Anton, Porthos assumed, mumbled brokenly. "All dead."

Treville grabbed the man by his shirt, hauling him up.

" _What_ are you doing here?"

Anton looked confused.

"They're all dead," he murmured brokenly.

Porthos, taking in Treville's fury, realized all at once who Anton was and what his presence here meant.

"He's the scout," he stated bluntly. Treville's nod had Porthos' own anger rising. "You didn't return to see to the dead?" he accused the sniveling man.

They'd all assumed, had discussed it just this morning, that the scout who'd found the bodies and sent word would return to the camp. The bodies would need to be seen to and guarded from predators. They had expected him to have recruited help from the village, that the bodies of their brothers would be ready for collection so they could take them home to lay them to rest.

But Anton was here, drinking away his sorrows.

The scout just shook his head, tears streaming silently down his face.

Treville dropped the man back to his chair as if his touch burned.

Porthos felt sick.  _Days_  it had been since the attack. Days that their fallen brothers had been abandoned in the snowy forests of Savoy.

"You left them to the animals?" he snarled, snatching Anton back from his chair with a growl. "Our brothers?!"

"All dead," Anton stated pitifully, shaking in his grasp.

"You bleedin' coward," Porthos accused lowly, anger boiling to the surface.

"Porthos," Treville warned firmly.

"He's left them to be ravaged," Porthos shot back sharply.

Treville looked just as sick at the realization as Porthos felt.

"Every man reacts to the violence of battle in his own way," Treville explained carefully. "Anton is young and untested."

Porthos released the trembling man with a disgusted snarl.

"He's been tested now, 'n he bloody failed."

Treville's calming hand on his shoulder did little to quiet Porthos' raging heart. A sound at the tavern door had them turning to watch Gaston and Demonte coming towards them.

"We've acquired a cart," Gaston informed them wearily.

Treville drew in a slow breath.

"We've just discovered the bodies have not been seen to, nor guarded since the attack. It's likely that…" he trailed off with a swallow and a vague gesture.

"My God," Gaston closed his eyes and crossed himself.

"I leave it to the three of you," Treville met each of their gazes in turn. "We can take some rest. It has been a long hard ride. We can go for them at first light. Or…" he looked to the door.

Porthos drew himself up to his full height.

Nearly five days of travel to bring them here after the message had reached Treville. For all that time and too many hours beyond, their brothers had been abandoned. "I say we go," he stated firmly. "Our brothers have waited long enough."

Next to him, both Gaston and Demonte looked at him in vague surprise, something akin to real respect igniting in their eyes for the first time. Treville, for his part, just gazed at him proudly.

"Long enough indeed," he agreed, looking to the others.

Both Gaston and Demonte nodded their agreement.

Treville nodded in return.

"Then they shall wait no longer."

* * *

In the end, Gaston remained behind to bring the cart at first light while the rest of them made their careful way in the darkness with nothing but the moon and a few borrowed lanterns to guide them.

Porthos hadn't been certain what to expect when they finally reached the site where their men had made their camp. Perhaps he'd expected the forest floor to be littered with foraging animals, or for nothing but gnawed bone to remain.

What he hadn't expected was the eerie quiet that blanketed the abandoned camp like a choking cloud. From a distance, it looked as if it was a normal night, as if the lumps on the ground were merely men asleep. But the absence of fires and any sort of movement or sound gave the entire scene an unnerving, unearthly feel.

They could see the bodies clearly enough. The rain – which had mercifully stopped – had cleared away any dusting of snow that might have covered them. The larger bodies of slaughtered horses stood further to the east.

Other than a few crows that fluttered about, unhampered even by the recent rain, the bodies seemed untouched.

They all exchanged wary glances.

"Spread out, circle in slowly. An enemy may still lie in wait," Treville ordered quietly.

Without a word, they moved to obey.

It was Demonte who found the wolf. He raised a hand to get their attention.

"This wolf's a rapier in its chest," he stated in shock.

Porthos met Treville's sharp gaze, eyes wide.

"Somebody survived," Porthos realized.

"The body is only hours old," Gaston added rapidly.

"Quickly," Treville snapped.

They converged on the bloody scene with a frantic sort of hope, but found no other body nearby.

"Remy," he heard Demonte call sharply only to shake his head when they all looked to him. "Someone treated his wound, but he's been gone for days."

It was Treville who found Michel. That hope was just as brief when he announced that though he also had a bandage, Michel was far beyond help.

It was Porthos who noticed the damp remnants of the fire. Even though the flame was gone, Porthos saw a faint red glow buried beneath the sodden sticks. There was a tin cup resting in the coals, prompting Porthos to kneel next to it. Cocking his head curiously, he turned his focus to the immediate area.

 _There_.

Between where Porthos stood now and where Gaston had found the wolf lay a figure outstretched on his stomach. The man's face was hidden, turned away from Porthos' view. He had one arm outstretched, fingers curled loosely in the dirt, and one leg bent as if he'd been in the midst of pushing off with it when he had died.

Something in Porthos' gut twisted as he studied the figure and ventured closer. There was a dirty, sodden bandage around the man's head, indicating that perhaps he was the one who had survived long enough to kill the wolf. Though the two others had also been bandaged, both had been laid carefully on their backs, not sprawled mid-movement like this one. He had been alive at one point after the battle, Porthos was sure of it.

His hair was long and dark, matted in a bloody wet mess, and could easily belong to any number of the Musketeers who'd died here. But Porthos knew, somehow, that it wasn't just any Musketeer. His heart told him exactly who it was.

 _Aramis_.

Porthos went to his knees next to the body and carefully rolled it over, catching the lulling head in his hand.

"Oh God," Porthos breathed, eyes stinging as he took in the bandages and the blood. Aramis had survived the attack. He'd been out here, alone, amidst a field of the dead while that cursed scout drank himself to oblivion.

"Here!" he called out hoarsely around the lump in his throat. He pressed his hand against Aramis' chest, already dreading the stillness he feared would greet him. "It's Aramis," he announced, voice tight. "He's…" he was ready to say 'dead'. The word had formed on his lips.

But then, so faint he'd nearly missed it, there was a weak rise of ribs against his palm. Sure he had imagined it, he leaned over, pressing his ear to the man's chest. A faint, but steady  _thump_  was his reward.

"Alive…" he breathed in shock. Then hope flooded him. "He's alive!" He shouted to the others. "Aramis!" he called sharply, lightly tapping the wounded man's cheek. There was no response, no signs of life but that steady thump and those weak breathes.

Treville was suddenly at his shoulder.

"My God," the captain whispered, sounding as if his very heart had been ripped from his chest. Then he snapped into action. "Demonte find a way to build a fire, I don't care what you have to do or burn to get it going. Porthos, get the wet clothes off of him. I'll fetch some blankets."

Porthos shifted Aramis off the cold ground and up to rest against his chest as Treville ran back towards the horses. He placed a gentle hand against Aramis' check, hissing at the icy feeling of his skin.

"'S all right now, 'Mis," he whispered. "I'm here now. You're safe."

There was no response, not even a twitch.

He had only just started peeling the sodden doublets from Aramis' body when suddenly Treville was back.

"Here," Treville shook out his own bedroll and gestured towards it.

Carefully, as if he were handling a newborn babe, Porthos finished removing the doublets and shifted Aramis to the blanket. He watched Treville assess the man's wounds even as Porthos took in the ghostly paleness of his features, the dangerous tinge of blue in his lips.

He was cold. Too cold.

"No obvious signs of infection," there was relief in Treville's voice with that, for good reason. "This wound has been cleaned at some point and blood loss was likely slowed due to the cold," Treville muttered as he fussed over the soiled bandage on Aramis' leg. "That may have saved his life."

But Porthos had grown up in the Court of Miracles, where dozens died from the cold every winter.

"The cold may kill him yet," he replied sharply. "We've got to warm him, carefully though, starting with his chest."

Treville looked at him in surprise as Porthos started unbuckling his doublet.

"Body heat is our only hope to save him," Porthos went on without explaining how he had this knowledge, or why he'd suddenly assumed command of the situation.

"You've dealt with this before," Treville realized. Then he nodded. "As have I. Put him between you and the fire, we'll put on every blanket we have to spare."

Porthos nodded and tossed his doublet aside, stripping off his shirt next. Treville worked in tandem to finish stripping Aramis out of his sodden clothes.

"Should we not try to get him back to town?" Demonte asked without looking up as he battled to get a spark to light the tinder he'd piled.

"There's no time," Treville replied frankly, voice void of emotion. "The cold's got too much of a hold on him. If we don't work quickly, he won't survive."

Porthos swallowed thickly as he kicked off his boots and slid out of his trousers. Left in nothing but his underclothes, he looked to Aramis. Treville had already completed the same tasks with the wounded man.

Without hesitation, Porthos laid down on the bedroll and pulled Aramis to him, wrapping his large arms around the smaller man and pressing their chests together.

"He's bleedin' frozen," Porthos growled through teeth clenched against the sudden cold that swept across his own skin. Treville quickly draped them both in a blanket, then started to shake out the others, quickly spreading them as well.

"I'll find more," Treville assured, disappearing from sight.

With Demonte fully focused on getting a fire lit, Porthos was left mostly alone with a half dead man in an awkwardly intimate embrace. So he reached for humor to settle the tightness of fear in his chest.

"Usually I save compromisin' positions such as this for partners prettier than you," he commented quietly. He tightened his arms around Aramis, lifting the man's head up to tuck into his neck so at least they weren't nose to nose. "You're bleedin' small, you know that?" he went on, acutely feeling the small stature of the man within his arms whose life now depended on him.

It wasn't true, exactly. Aramis wasn't particularly  _small_  at all. He was tall, really, as men went, but lean. Porthos was only a bit taller himself, but he was broader in the shoulders and built with thicker muscle than the lithe marksman. The difference between them, though, had never been as obvious as it felt right now.

"You never seemed small before now," he continued idly. "The way you trot 'round, larger than life. Never seemed small…but, bleedin' Christ, feels as if your half my size. Best we not play at hand t' hand anymore. I'm likely t' break you," he teased with a slight grin. He could almost hear the affronted huff and sarcastic quip Aramis would respond with if he were awake. He'd likely follow that response with a swift challenge of hand to hand combat right then and there.

There was, of course, no response to his rambling but that which he imagined. But the faint puff of Aramis' breaths against the skin of his shoulder comforted him, assured him the man was still clinging to life.

Another blanket draped over him, followed by two more.

A moment later he realized Demonte had a fire burning and was slowly building it up.

Aramis had the fire at his back now, and Porthos at his chest. He had no choice but to get warm now.

But Porthos knew that there were no certainties. In the Court, even those who'd they'd managed to find and rewarm had sometimes died despite their efforts. The cold taxed the body in a horrible way. Some were simply not strong enough to survive it.

"That's not you, is it?" he whispered to the unconscious man. "You didn't stay alive this long to give up now."

Treville hovered near their feet, eyes wide with worry in a way Porthos had never witnessed in the veteran soldier.

"Nothin' now but to wait," Porthos commented, more to break the silence than anything. "Either it'll work and he'll warm and wake, or..."

Treville nodded, squeezing Porthos' leg through the blankets and then motioning Demonte – who'd gotten the fire burning brightly now – to follow him. Porthos watched them start to move around to see to the dead.

Sitting in silence just made the worry in his chest fester, so Porthos sought distraction.

He talked.

He talked about everything and anything that came to mind. He spoke of his past, his childhood in the Court. He remembered Flea and the young love they'd shared. He recounted his choice to leave the Court, the inspiration he'd found to change his lot in life.

"It was you, you know," Porthos remembered quietly. "That day in the market. I saw you, dressed in your leathers, pauldron like a beacon on your shoulder. You stood, fierce as a lion, between an angry store keeper and two little orphans. I watched you repay him for what was stolen. Then, you gave your coin purse to the li'l ones. Every bit of wealth you had to give in that moment, you gave it without thought." Porthos remembered that day clearly, over three years ago now.

The weight of the stolen coins in his own pocket had grown too heavy to bear as he watched a nameless Musketeer selflessly give what little he had to those who needed it more.

Porthos had left the Court a week later and joined the infantry.

He had never dreamed to see that Musketeer again. But then, on his first day in the Garrison, freshly commissioned by Treville, Porthos had been assigned to train under that very Musketeer who had inspired him – Aramis.

He'd never told the marksman that he had been the final push Porthos had needed to put action to the years of discontent he'd struggled with as a child of the Court. One selfless act of kindness, witnessed from the shadows, and Porthos had resolved to be a better man. He'd never imagined at the time that he would one day wear the same uniform as that Musketeer; never conceived that he would serve beside him as an equal. A friend. A brother.

"You cannot die here, Aramis," Porthos told the unconscious man fiercely. "Fate brought us together. We're meant to stand side by side, you and I, as brothers."

Because he knew that he and Aramis had not met by chance. That day in the market, the instant spark of friendship between them years later, the ease with which that friendship had flourished…it had brought them here. Aramis had saved him, twice now, without even knowing it. First, in the market and again when he offered the friendship all others had denied.

Now, he would save Aramis.

Fate had bound them. Porthos would not let that bond go without a fight.

He tightened his arms around the silent man against his chest and closed his eyes. Then, for the first time since he was a child watching his mother die from fever, he prayed to a God he had long since stopped believing in.

* * *

Sometime later, Treville and the others had moved the bodies, lining them up carefully and covering them with the cloaks and blankets they'd found abandoned in the snow. Treville now sat close at Porthos' head, eyes drifting down every now and then to the silent, still figure still cradled to his chest. Demonte was sleeping on the other side of the fire.

"One day for that dispatch to reach you," Porthos mused quietly. "Four more for us to arrive… Five days, he was here, abandoned in the snow. Five days alone but for the dead."

Treville sighed deeply, looking suddenly so much older than he ever had before. He took a breath as if to speak but Porthos continued.

"Even havin' his wounds treated, how has he survived?" he wondered, focusing for a moment on the soft breaths against his shoulder. He thought they might be growing stronger, steadier.

"Through God's mercy," Treville guessed. "A divine miracle."

Porthos frowned.

"I don't believe 'n miracles." Then, frowning further, "I don't believe 'n God."

Despite its name, the Court of Miracles had been no place for faith or hope. You could trust in no one but yourself and those you held as family…and sometimes not even them. There were no miracles, no divine saviors, only your own wits and strength to see you through. If God existed, he had abandoned Porthos long ago.

Treville shot him a skeptical glance and Porthos shrugged a shoulder.

"Aramis does," Treville revealed. "He's actually quite devout."

Porthos arched an eyebrow. The stories of Aramis' romantic conquests were renowned within the Garrison and were known throughout certain parts of the city as well.

Treville grinned a little.

"In his own way, at least," the captain amended.

Porthos chuckled a bit at that. 'His own way' indeed. Aramis probably charmed God in prayer as easily as he charmed Serge into giving him special treatment, or the ladies of Paris into letting him into their beds.

"And I think, perhaps," Treville stared into the fire, tone thoughtful, "that the God in which Aramis believes has seen fit to spare him…whether  _you_  believe or not."

"He's not spared yet," Porthos pointed out.

"But neither is he dead."

Porthos could not argue that.

He felt something tremble against his chest. He blinked and then felt another shudder. A moment later Aramis' entire body was shivering, almost violently, within his arms.

Porthos felt tears prick the corners of his eyes.

"Is he having a fit?" Treville worried. It was a valid concern, one Treville had probably seen lived out in his own days of soldiering.

The cold could do terrible things to a body.

"No," Porthos assured. He briefly closed his eyes as relief swept through him, and then raised his gaze to Treville's. "He's shiverin'," he announced with a weary smile.

Treville looked wary, as if he didn't dare to believe it.

"He's shiverin'," Porthos repeated. "It's workin'."

A look of such relief swept across Treville's face that Porthos was sure the man was about to cry. Instead, he reached for another branch and added it to the already roaring fire.

* * *

Porthos hadn't meant to sleep. But even so, he found himself waking to the sun already nearly halfway across the sky.

He startled a bit to realize the figure in his arms was no longer shivering, but felt reassuring breaths against his shoulder a moment later. Aramis hadn't stopped shivering because he'd died. He'd stopped shivering because he'd  _warmed_. Mostly, at least. Even as Porthos watched him, a single, violent shiver wracked the man's body. Still, it was an improvement. But a sharp look at Aramis' face revealed cheeks red with the beginnings of fever. Not exactly joyous news, but better than them being white with death.

"Gaston arrived an hour ago and we've got the cart loaded." Treville was suddenly standing over them, blocking the sun. "There is something we need to discuss, but we need to get him to the village first. There should be a physician of some sort there. Has he improved enough to travel?"

Porthos opened his mouth to reply when a faint mumble drew both their attention.

Aramis stirred, eyes fluttering.

" _Muerto…"_

Porthos frowned. That wasn't French. He'd heard Aramis speak to Esmé enough to recognize it as likely Spanish, but that knowledge did not tell him what the mumbled word  _meant_.

Treville's gaze was soft, correctly reading his confusion.

"He's got Spanish blood in him; his mother, I think, but he's never said. You can see from looking at him."

Porthos supposed that was true. He hadn't really noticed before now.

"Dem'n," Aramis mumbled, pushing weakly against Porthos' chest.

Porthos was afraid to let him go, that his warmth was still needed.

"Tha's a bit rude," he muttered in response to the accusation.

"He's dreaming," Treville pointed out.

Porthos barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He'd figured that bit out for himself.

" _Todos muertos…"_   _(All dead…)_

Porthos didn't have to speak the language to guess at the meaning behind those words, the tone told the truth of it clearly enough.

"Y' c'n't 'ave 'em," Aramis pushed more firmly against Porthos' chest, but he held strong. " _Este n' 's m' día p'ra m'rir."_

Porthos was struggling to track the rapid shift in language, made even harder to distinguish amidst the slurring, so he looked to Treville.

"You know what that means?"

Treville looked torn between being stricken and fiercely proud.

"'This is not my day to die'," he translated, voice thick.

Porthos looked back at Aramis.

"Damn right it's not," he agreed fiercely.

Then, all at once, without any warning, fever bright brown eyes were staring at him. He didn't even have a chance to feel relief before a sharp elbow was cutting up into his chin, then slamming hard into his cheek.

"Bleedin' hell!" he gasped, arms loosing and allowing Aramis to scramble away. "He's strong for being half dead," he muttered, feeling blood trickle from a cut below his eye.

"Aramis, calm down," Treville spoke carefully.

The tone of voice had Porthos warily pushing himself up, searching for the marksman. His eyebrows rose when he saw Aramis standing a distance away on shaking legs, a rapier brandished before him.

* * *

Aramis had woken to confinement.

Strong bindings had been holding him in place. The sounds of clashing steel had reached his ears and the memory of a battle with masked men filtered through his mind.

His brothers were in danger. They needed him.

He lashed out at whatever was holding him captive and a moment later he was free. He saw a sword resting on the ground nearby and dove for it. He had it in hand a moment later and tore it from its scabbard, tossing the covering aside.

Then he turned to face the enemy.

But instead of men in masks, he saw four wary gazes watching him.

So they'd finally shown their cowardly faces.

The one off to his left moved closer and Aramis swung the stolen blade, driving the man back several stumbled steps.

"Aramis, it's me, Treville," the oldest of the lot spoke to him.

Treville? Why did that name seem familiar?

Aramis shook his head, only to wince when a flare of pain had his world wavering dangerously.

The four men moved closer and Aramis snarled, forcing away the weakness of his body.

They would not kill him, not here, not today.

" _Este no es mi día para morir_ ,"  _(This is not my day to die,)_ he spat before launching into an attack.

It was pathetic really, how short the battle was. A strong hand was able to bat the rapier out of his admittedly weak grip with an annoying sort of ease just as Aramis' leg gave out beneath him.

He hit his knees jarringly, sending a wave of agony through his body from his legs up to his head –  _God, his head –_  but would not give up so easily.

He fisted his hand around some snow and threw it into the face of the one who had disarmed him. His eye caught a pistol on a bedroll.

He dove for it.

His hand found the smooth stock and he brought the weapon around, rolling onto his back. He leveled the pistol at whichever enemy was closest. At least he thought he did. It was hard to be sure with his vision swimming to and fro and his head pounding like a herd of horses was stampeding through it.

No matter. Even at his worst, Aramis prided himself on being one of the  _best_  with a pistol in his hand. His odds were good. He brushed his finger over the trigger.

"ARAMIS!"

The sharp call had him pausing.  _That voice…_

He blinked and the man who had shouted his name came into stilted focus. The man was large, seeming like a giant from Aramis' position on the ground. His skin was dark and his black hair had a dusting of snow in it.

His eyes, though, were what caught Aramis' attention. The dark eyes were wide with worry and not one shred of hostility. And there was… _something_  there – something familiar.

"'S all right," the hulk of a man soothed. "You're safe."

Aramis blinked again and something triggered in his pounding brain. He knew that voice. He knew that voice better than he knew anything else right now.

"Porth's?" he realized, confusion crashing down on him.

Why was Porthos here? He couldn't be here, it wasn't safe.

" _No te puedes estar aquí," (You can't be here,)_ he said.

Porthos frowned, glancing to the older man standing next to him.

"It's not safe," Aramis went on, heart thumping hard and fast in his chest. Porthos couldn't be here. "It's not  _safe_!" he stated more firmly. He had to make him understand. Porthos needed to get out of here before it was too late.

But instead of fleeing, Porthos drew closer. He went into a crouch once he was within arms' reach.

"It's all right," Porthos said again. "You're safe now."

Aramis frowned.

" _No,"_  he argued, pushing off the ground with his elbow and reaching out. The pistol fell, unfired, to the ground. Porthos met his trembling hand with his own and Aramis used the grip as leverage to haul himself up. Immediately, the world started twisting and turning and a sharp pain pulsed through his head. He clenched his eyes closed, trying to wait for it to pass – for  _all_  of it to pass.

Strong arms caught him around the shoulders, keeping him from crashing back down.

"Easy," a deep voice rumbled near his ear.  _Porthos_. "I've got you, 'Mis."

' _Mis._

His mother had called him 'Mis. She's the only one who had ever done that before now.

"P'th's."

"I'm here," that voice assured.

"You can't be," Aramis insisted. He forced his eyes open and turned towards the voice. He met Porthos' worried gaze. " _No esta seguro…" (It's not safe…)_ he breathed. When the words didn't inspire immediate action, Aramis said them again, more forcefully. "¡ _No esta seguro, Porthos!"_

Porthos' gaze was confused, but his voice remained calm and steady.

"It's all right, 'Mis."

 _No_. No it wasn't. Nothing was all right.

Why couldn't he  _breathe?_

"Aramis," a new voice echoed from over his shoulder, "you need to calm down and breathe, son."

Aramis turned his head, eyes searching.

Treville.

Relief swept through him.

Treville was here. Treville had always protected him.

One arm was still tangled up with Porthos, keeping him from collapsing in a heap, but Aramis reached for Treville with the other.

The captain caught his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Aramis opened his mouth, intent on issuing the same warning to his captain that he'd tried to communicate –  _poorly_ apparently – to Porthos. But his vision trembled and his voice stuck in his throat.

Sharp, pulsing pain shot through his head and the world went white.

"Aramis?"

"Aramis!"

He tried to speak again, despite the fact that the only thing he was really aware of anymore was pain. His vision faded back and he caught a glimpse of worried eyes and concerned faces for only a moment before gray started to invade.

He'd failed. They didn't understand. He hadn't  _made_  them understand.

They would die here with him now.

He wanted to apologize. He wanted to beg their forgiveness for failing them.

But before he could manage anything more than a stuttered breath, the gray turned to black.

* * *

Porthos caught Aramis against his chest as the marksman slumped bonelessly against him.

"Aramis?!" he called, worry making his voice gruff and sharp.

Treville pressed his fingers against Aramis' throat and Porthos – along with Gaston and Demonte – held their breath as they waited.

"He's alive," Treville announced, expelling a relieved sigh.

"I think he was a bit confused," Demonte commented.

Porthos gave the other man a sarcastic glare.

"A  _bit,"_ he agreed with snarl. "His head's been bashed in. What do you expect!".

"Porthos," Treville warned sharply. He waited for Porthos to release Demonte from his glare before going on. "We need to get him back to town, have him seen by a physician. Gaston, Demonte, pack the camp," Treville ordered. Once they'd both moved away, Treville turned his full attention back to Porthos and the dangerously still bundle in his arms.

For a long moment, Treville just stared at them. The look in his eyes, usually so calm and unflappable, was like nothing Porthos had ever seen before. He didn't even know how to describe it. It went beyond simple worry, beyond devastation.

But then, in a blink, the look was gone and Treville was back to the steel-strong captain that Porthos had come to know.

"Redress yourself. There's no room in the cart so he'll have to ride with someone," Treville decided.

For Porthos, there was no need to consider.

"He'll ride with me."

Treville smiled patiently and warmly.

"You are the largest of us, Porthos…"

"Which means I'll have the easiest time of it keeping him in the saddle," Porthos growled. "The horse won't tire, we've not that far to go, and certainly won't be moving quickly."

Treville held up a hand to quiet him.

"If you'd let me finish, I was  _going_  to agree with you."

Porthos, mouth open to argue further, released the breath he'd drawn in and let his mouth close again. He gave Treville a curt nod but then only stared at him when the captain reached to take Aramis from him.

Treville's gaze softened again and he moved his hand to grip Porthos' shoulder.

"I'll take care of him," the captain assured, reaching with his other hand for the nearest blanket.

Reluctantly, Porthos eased the unconscious marksman into Treville's waiting arms, watching the captain carefully wrap the retrieved blanket around him. Only then was he able to force himself to move.

As he found his clothes and began to redress, his gaze was continually drawn back to Aramis and Treville. Other than to wrap a second blanket around the injured Musketeer, neither had moved. Treville sat, Aramis cradled in his arms, head bent low and mouth moving with words Porthos was too far away to hear.

Everyone in the regiment knew Aramis had been one of the original five Musketeers, hand chosen by Treville when he was only eighteen years old. Everyone knew, though it was never explicitly stated, that Treville was shepherding Aramis along to one day take over the mantel as the captain of the Musketeers.

But in this moment, Porthos did not see a captain and his soldier. He didn't even see a mentor and his protégé. What he saw, as he watched Treville with Aramis was…something  _more_.

The scene reminded him of an accident from his youth in which a childhood friend had been struck in the chest by a horse's kick. The boy's father had held him as he struggled for breath, had whispered quietly to him with a voice too low for any other soul to hear.

However surprising the revelation, it was impossible not to see the same bond in the two men before him now.

He kept waiting for Treville to notice his stare, but even by the time he had buttoned his heavy cloak around his shoulders, the captain had not once raised his lowered head. Porthos retrieved an extra shirt from his hastily packed saddle bags and then Aramis' discarded trousers and boots. He brought them over to Treville and knelt beside him.

"… _-_ est men I've ever known. So be that man now and fight _,"_  Treville was whispering.

Porthos hesitated, but then cleared his throat.

"Captain."

Treville's head rose immediately, expression expertly schooled. Porthos held up the retrieved clothing demonstratively and Treville nodded.

Ten minutes later found Porthos astride a horse with Aramis being carefully handed up to him by Treville and Gaston. He tried to not be completely overridden by concern and fear when Aramis had no reaction at all, not even an involuntary whimper of pain, from all the movement.

When the marksman was finally settled before him, carefully bundled in blankets, Porthos wrapped his arms around either side of him and took the reins that Demonte offered him.

"Got him?" Treville asked, hands still hovering near Aramis' leg.

Porthos gave another curt nod.

He had him and he did not intend to let go any time soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Five
> 
> So they've got him, but this, of course, is only the beginning. Head wounds are such nasty business and those of you that have been reading my little fics for this 'verse so far know that this one sticks with Aramis for years to come. More to come tomorrow!
> 
> Drop me a line if you please. I would love to hear from you!
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "I remember thinking I had never met a soldier with such a bright disposition before or such an easy demeanor," the captain went on. "Nothing ever fazed him, nothing ever gave him pause or made him flinch. He could adapt and adjust to circumstances like few I'd ever seen."
> 
> Treville leaned forward, brushing his fingers over Aramis' wrist before withdrawing again.
> 
> "But most of all, what I remember most about him from that time, and what holds true even now, is this…"
> 
> Porthos waited, watching Treville expectantly.
> 
> "He survives."


	6. When You Call and Need Me Near

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Five: Thimblerig, Lady_Neve, issa, Daisy_Chain, and Scarlett77

 

_Because brothers don't let each other wander in the dark alone.  
_ _**Jolene Perry** _

* * *

_April 4, 1625  
_ _Outlying Village, Savoy_

* * *

Porthos rubbed wearily at his eyes and shifted in the hard wooden chair he'd pulled close to the bed Aramis now lay in.

The physician had only just left. Treville was seeing him back to his horse even now.

Gaston and Demonte were seeking out a safe place to keep the cart until they could begin the journey back to Paris. Which left Porthos to sit with Aramis – an outcome he was more than happy with.

His place was here, after all, at his brother's side. The thought of being anywhere but at Aramis' side made his chest tighten. Even unconscious as he was, Aramis' presence still brought him comfort.

It didn't make sense, he knew, to feel such dedication. The duration of their friendship had been short up to this point. He should not feel so tied to this man.

But, without real reason, he  _did._  He could not explain the bond between them and he hoped he never had to try and imagine his life without it.

Being around Aramis, before all this had happened, had felt… _warming_. It had been as if they had been kindred spirits, however impossible Porthos knew that to be. Aramis was nothing like him, had lived nothing like the life Porthos had. The young marksman should not have felt so instantly familiar. Being around him should not have felt like coming  _home_.

But it had.

Porthos sighed and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and fixing his gaze on the injured marksman.

Aramis stirred restlessly, but showed no signs of waking.

The physician had callously sheared away and shaved over half of Aramis' hair to properly clean and bandage both the obvious wound on his temple and a wound on the back of his head that Porthos hadn't even known about. He had clucked about the fever that had slowly tightened its grip, murmured about the miracle that all Aramis' fingers and toes appeared intact despite spending several nights in the frozen forest. Then he had gone on to marvel at how, after over five days, no infection had set in.

The fever, he'd said, could be a result of a number of things and it was impossible to know exactly what was causing it. The bottom line was simply that Aramis' body had been through an ordeal and it was suffering for it.

The physician had left a drought of herbs to help with the fever and another for any pain once Aramis was awake enough to drink them.

 _If_ he was ever awake enough.

Despite their insistence that Aramis had been awake and talking – albeit without great lucidity – the physician cautioned them of the unpredictability of head wounds. A man could be fine one moment, seem completely sound, and then the next be dead on the ground. In short, Porthos had taken that to mean they should not rest their hopes on those moments of confused awareness from the forest.

Aramis could easily never wake again and there was nothing to be done for it. All they could do was wait.

Porthos reached to remove the damp cloth from Aramis' forehead just as Treville re-entered the room. The captain silently watched Porthos rewet the cloth and carefully rub it over Aramis' heaving chest as he labored over every breath.

"He'll be horrified when he wakes to half his hair gone," Porthos commented just to break the silence. His words seem to spur Treville back to life and the older soldier moved, dragging over a second chair to take up sentry at Porthos' side.

"Yes, but even his horror will fall far short of the heartbreak the women of Paris will feel until it starts to grow back," Treville replied with a faint, slightly forced chuckle.

Porthos grinned.

"You say that as if having no hair will make any difference in that regard."

Treville huffed a real laugh now, fidgeting with something in his hands that Porthos hadn't noticed until now.

Aramis' hat.

Treville hadn't had it when he'd left the room earlier. He must have retrieved it from the things they recovered from the camp.

"He'll be glad to have that back," Porthos nodded towards the headwear, watching Treville absently stroke the feather. "I've never seen a man so attached to a  _hat_  before."

The smile that turned up the corners of Treville's mouth only lasted a breath, but it was full of warmth and affection.

"Yes, well, he's had it since he became a Musketeer."

Porthos rewet the cloth again and snuck a glance at Treville over his shoulder. There was more to that story, he was sure of it. Treville was looking down at the hat now, eyes reflective.

"Should I shave it?" Porthos asked after a moment.

Treville looked up at him with a confused blink.

"The rest of his hair," Porthos explained. "Better an even shave, do you think? Rather than this half job mess?"

Treville considered for a moment and then nodded.

They spent the next hour gently and carefully working together to trim away and shave the rest of Aramis' long hair. That done, they settled back in their chairs to wait.

Demonte and Gaston appeared bearing trays of food at one point, and sat with them for a while even after the food was gone. Then, as evening fell, Treville shooed them to their own room to rest. He tried to send Porthos away as well, but Porthos flatly refused and Treville did not push further.

And they waited.

It was only a couple of hours into the night when Aramis started dreaming. While that seemed a comfort in a way, since it suggested his mind was still intact, it was also a curse because Aramis talked as much in his fevered dreams as he did when he was awake.

"Shhh," Treville soothed as Porthos stood to mop Aramis' hot face, carefully mindful of the bandage wrapped around his head. "You're safe," he assured as he used a second cloth to wipe down Aramis' chest.

The words seemed to have no affect as Aramis continued to writhe on the bed, growing more and more agitated as time wore on.

"Masks…" Aramis mumbled, "cowards… The leader, Marsac… Marsac… _no me dejes aquí…" (don't leave me here...)_

Next to him, Treville went still.

"What does that mean?" Porthos demanded. "What's he sayin'?"

Treville opened his mouth to answer, but Aramis spoke again, a hand lifting from the mattress as if reaching for something…or someone.

"Please…don't…  _Todos muertos…_ Marsac…don't leave me here…"

Porthos met Treville's gaze, feeling hot fury rise in his chest. Treville's eyes had hardened to ice at the implication of those fevered words.

"Does that mean what I think it means?" Porthos asked lowly, anger turning his voice into a growl.

If it did…if Marsac had  _abandoned_  Aramis during the fight…

"Marsac wasn't amongst the dead," Treville revealed. "I was going to tell you earlier, but we had more pressing matters to concern ourselves with."

Porthos sank down to his chair, breath catching in his chest.

_Don't leave me here._

The whispered, fevered words seemed to hover in the air, taunting them with a truth they did not yet know.

What had Marsac  _done_?

"We don't know anything for certain," Treville pointed out firmly. "What matters most, in this moment, is Aramis."

As if spurred by the words, Aramis started writhing even more, his right hand grasping at the bedsheets, searching for something.

"No… _no_ … This is not…this isn't…" his breathing sped up, chest heaving as he gasped in air. " _Este no es mi día para morir," (This is not my day to die,)_ he practically snarled.

"Aramis," Treville pitched his voice low and calm, pressing his hand carefully against Aramis' chest, "you're safe."

But Aramis did not calm; if anything he grew more agitated. His head rocked back and forth on the pillow, brow furrowed against pain even unconsciousness didn't spare him from.

"Easy, 'Mis," Porthos tried, smoothing his hand over Aramis' pinched brow and then skimming it carefully back over his shaven head. "I've got your back now. And no harm's comin' to you on my watch."

Aramis' erratic movements slowed, his head tilting slightly towards Porthos.

"He heard you," Treville concluded, sounding both relieved and very  _sad_.

"It's a coincidence is all," Porthos argued quietly as he absently stroked his hand over Aramis' head, mindful of the bandaging.

"Either way," Treville replied wearily, "it's working."

Sure enough, Aramis' breathing was evening out and his writhing was settling. When he finally calmed back into a somewhat peaceful rest, Porthos sat back again.

"What if he doesn't wake up?" Porthos asked quietly, eyes fixed on Aramis' lax face. He eyed the bandaging over the gruesome gash on his temple. It had been too late for needlework, the physician had said. After five days, the wound had already begun to knit and the scar left behind would be a nasty one. But, the bulk of it was far enough behind his hairline that it would be hidden once his flowing locks returned to their former glory.

Next to him, Treville shifted.

"I've known Aramis for a very long time," the captain began quietly, but steadily. "He was just a boy, only seventeen years old, when I met him."

"I thought he was eighteen when he was commissioned," Porthos wondered in confusion.

"He was, but I had known him for over a year before that. I met him before the Musketeers had ever even been a thought in the king's mind."

"What was he like then?" Porthos wondered, trying to imagine Aramis younger, less sure of himself.

" _I was a boy amongst men,"_  Aramis had told him once.  _"Hardly certain of my place and unwilling to jeopardize it."_

"Much as he is now," Treville answered easily, a glance in his direction revealed the older soldier to be smiling fondly, gaze reflective. "A fair bit more reckless, if you can believe such a thing is possible, but no less fearlessly brave. He was very young, though, too young for what was being asked of him."

Porthos looked fully at Treville now, curiosity bubbling.

"What was being asked of him?"

Treville's blue eyes came back into focus and he glanced first at Porthos and then settled his gaze back on Aramis.

"Too much," he answered vaguely. "Those stories are his to tell, not mine."

Porthos nodded, accepting.

"I remember thinking I had never met a soldier with such a bright disposition before or such an easy demeanor," the captain went on. "Nothing ever fazed him, nothing ever gave him pause or made him flinch. He could adapt and adjust to circumstances like few I'd ever seen."

Treville leaned forward, brushing his fingers over Aramis' wrist before withdrawing again.

"But most of all, what I remember most about him from that time, and what holds true even now, is this…"

Porthos waited, watching Treville expectantly.

"He survives."

Porthos felt his breath catch again at those two simple words.

_He survives._

Those words spoke of strength that had been tested and that had endured.

"He will survive this," Treville stated firmly, leaving no room for argument or doubt.

Which was just as well because Porthos did not intend to do either.

* * *

"Porthos!"

Porthos jerked awake, nearly falling from his chair.

He blinked around the dark room blearily, trying to locate the origin of the call.

There, bathed in candlelight, Treville was struggling to hold a flailing Aramis to the bed.

Porthos was out of his chair in a breath and leaning over the marksman, helping Treville hold him down. The first thing that struck him was the  _heat_. Aramis' skin was burning with a fever so much higher than before.

"What happened?" he asked gruffly, using his shoulder to rub at his weary eyes. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but it seemed his body had made that decision without his consent.

"The dreams have been getting worse," Treville replied sharply. "He's torn open the wound on his leg."

Porthos' gaze snapped down to the bandage wrapped around Aramis' thigh to find it stained bright red.

"I can't get him to calm," Treville ground out as he narrowly avoided a knee to the ribs.

"Aramis!" Porthos called out immediately, pressing his palm to the marksman's forehead.

He nearly jumped away in shock when Aramis' eyes snapped open. The brown gaze was bright with fever and looked a step shy of lucid.

"Marsac!" Aramis gasped, hands wrapping like vices around Porthos' arm.

"It's Porthos," he explained gently, ignoring the fingers digging painfully into his skin.

"Porthos?" Aramis stared up at him, but despite the alertness the questioning call suggested, he still looked completely unaware of his surroundings.

"Yeah, 'Mis. It's Porthos."

Aramis blinked at him.

"'Mis…" he repeated breathily. " _Mamá…"_  Before Porthos could do more than exchange a confused glance with Treville, Aramis' hands tightened their already bruising grip on Porthos' arm.

"Porthos, don't go," Aramis pleaded, eyes wide and frantic. " _No me dejes aquí...por favor…" (Don't leave me here...please…)_

"No one is leaving you, Aramis," Treville assured quietly, but Aramis' dark gaze remained pinned on Porthos.

" _Por favor_ …" ( _Please…)_ Aramis' hands clawed their way up Porthos' arm until his fingers were twisted into the shirt over his chest. "Don't leave me here."

"I won't," Porthos promised, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I won't leave you. I'm not going anywhere, 'Mis. I promise."

For several long, heavy moments Aramis just stared at him, his brown eyes wide and vulnerable.

"Rest now," Porthos urged, carefully peeling Aramis' hands off his shirt and easing the other man back onto the bed. Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, Aramis' eyes closed and he settled back to sleep with a sigh.

Porthos pressed his palm again to Aramis' brow and then slid it back over his scalp, hoping the gesture was a comfort.

He didn't notice Treville had backed away until the man spoke from near the door.

"I'll fetch the physician," he announced gruffly, a note of  _something_  in his voice that had Porthos turning to assess him.

Treville was watching Aramis with a sort of sadness in his eyes.

It struck Porthos that perhaps, in the past, it had been Treville's voice,  _Treville's_  assurance that Aramis had sought in moments like this.

"I'm sorry," Porthos blurted, but he didn't step back from his place hovering over Aramis, didn't remove his hand from the marksman's brow.

Treville met his gaze, then, and shook his head.

"Don't be. It's for the best, I think."

Porthos frowned, puzzling over what the captain meant by that. But before he could work it out, Treville had slipped out the door.

* * *

Treville kept his steps calm and controlled as he moved down the hallway, away from their room. He remained cool and collected as he descended the steps and kept his voice steady and polite as he asked the innkeeper for directions to the physician.

It wasn't until he stepped out into the cold, crisp night air that he felt his well-practiced mask start slip.

Seeing any of his men injured had never been easy to take, but Aramis had always been different. Seeing the young marksman grievously wounded had always hit him harder than when it was one of the other Musketeers. It was the duration of his relationship with the boy that made it so, that and Aramis' habit of making light of his own injuries.

The young soldier possessed an amazing capacity for enduring pain and his fortitude had, thus far, known no bounds. This had often led Treville into a false sense of security when it came to the youngest – and the most reckless – of his original five Musketeers.

Aramis shrugged off things like knife wounds and minor musket ball injuries like most men shrugged off scrapes and bruises. So when Aramis was actually  _affected_  by a wound, when an injury actually succeeded in stripping away the marksman's typical bravado, Treville was often left shocked by the sheer  _severity_  of it. Because if Aramis wasn't brushing it off, if he wasn't hopping back up with a smile and a laugh, then he was likely on death's door or drawing near to it.

Aramis had only been injured to such an extreme a handful of times in the years Treville had known him. It hadn't yet gotten any easier to witness, but this time…this time was worse.

He had always been there, at Aramis' side, in the past. He'd been the one Aramis clutched at when the pain was beyond what he could bear. He'd been the one who Aramis called for when the reality of his injury set in and the fear took hold.

But not today.

Today, it had been Porthos' touch that calmed him, Porthos' words that settled him. Porthos had been the one he clutched at.

It had hurt, more than it should have. He should be grateful, he knew, that Aramis was finding any sort of comfort at all. He should be relieved that Aramis had found such a trusted friend, a  _brother_. But still…he felt the loss of no longer being the one Aramis turned to.

But he had been speaking the truth when he told Porthos that it was for the best.

Treville had caused this, after all.

He had been the one to send Aramis here. He had given that order. And worse, he had a horrible feeling that  _he_ had been the reason their attackers had known their location.

From the moment Louis had given him the order to send word of his men's position to the Duke of Savoy, his instincts – bred and honed through a lifetime of soldiering – had warned him something was badly wrong. It was why he'd sent the scout, Anton, after them.

He had prayed, every night since then, that his gut feeling would be proven wrong.

Instead, he found himself with the blood of twenty dead on his hands. He found himself haunted by Marsac's disappearance. He found himself gutted in the face of Aramis' uncertain future.

Would he wake? It seemed he might. But would he be Aramis when he did? Would he be the young man Treville had shepherded into manhood? Who he'd trained and guided along the path of becoming a Musketeer? Time would tell. In his years of battle experience, Treville had seen men lose themselves to the horrors of what they'd witnessed, of what they'd done, and what had been done  _to_ them. He'd seen men waste away to nothing as they were buried beneath the weight of such memories.

Would Aramis become one of these men? A broken soldier? A spent warrior? Would his life be ended when he had only just begun to live it?

Treville reached for the wall of the building he walked next to, using it to keep himself from going to his knees as his legs betrayed him.

God, what had he  _done_?

If what he suspected had happened was indeed the truth, then he had betrayed his own men. He had given their location to a man intent to do them harm.

He had  _done_ this.

He had gone through it in his mind, over and over, on the trip here from Paris. He'd tried to figure out  _why_. He'd tried to understand  _why_  the duke would betray the king in such a way. He did not believe such a thing could be mere coincidence. The duke had done this, every instinct told him it was so. But why? For now, he had no answer.

Nor did he have any idea how he was going to face Aramis when the Musketeer was alert enough to comprehend the world around him. How could he ever look the young man in the eye again after this?

Aramis would not blame him. This he knew with certainty.

" _We're soldiers, Captain,"_  he'd say.  _"We follow our orders no matter where they lead…even to death."_

Familiar words.

It had been the justification Aramis had given him when they'd first met all those years ago. When Treville had come across a wandering young soldier, he'd thought him to be a deserter. He soon found out the boy was a French spy returning from a clandestine mission across the border.

Seventeen years old, Aramis had been.  _Seventeen_  and his commanding officer had turned him into a spy because he looked the part and spoke the language.

He'd been too young for such a burden, too young to have so much asked of him.

But Aramis had been of a different mind on the matter. He was a soldier, through and through, and he was loyal. He was loyal even to that bastard of a commander. He had taken Treville's concern and righteous anger over the whole situation and  _laughed_  at it. Then he'd looked him directly in the eye and said those words, sounding decades older and wiser than he was. He'd said them to him again after the mess with Darío Medina left him very nearly dead. Treville, himself, had used those words when explaining unwelcome or dangerous orders to his men.

No, if Aramis knew the whole story, he would never hold it against him.

But  _that_  – that disregard for the value of his own life – was always hard to face. Aramis had always been quick to dismiss his own life if he thought a greater purpose would be served. It was noble and heroic and so very brave. As a captain it made Treville fiercely proud. But as a friend and a pseudo-father it drove him absolutely mad.

And he would not keep the truth from him. Everything between them would change if he did. Even now, seeing how Aramis had suffered –  _was_ suffering – was a physically painful thing. Further, Aramis – being  _Aramis_  – would blame himself. He was good at that, at seeing how  _he_  had failed when things went wrong. He was quick to excuse the shortcomings of others, but never his own.

He would tell him, confess the whole awful truth of what he'd done, when Aramis was well enough to hear it. Until then, Treville would bear the burden.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, he straightened his shoulders and pushed away from the wall that had held him up, continuing on his way.

* * *

"Somebody has to take the bodies back to Paris," Gaston whispered as the four of them sat around the small table across the room from where Aramis continued to suffer through his relentless fever.

"I'm not leavin'," Porthos declared firmly.

"I would not ask you to," Treville replied immediately, much to Porthos' relief.

Treville had returned with the physician a few hours ago and the man had rebound Aramis' leg. He'd fretted about the fever, suggesting leeches.

Treville, to Porthos' surprise, had firmly objected and had refused to be swayed. The physician had relented.

Morning had now come, and Aramis was no better. Porthos and Treville had worked tirelessly to cool his scorching skin, but so far their efforts had been fruitless.

Aramis, for his part, continued to dream. And, just as before, somehow Porthos continued to be the only one able to calm him. Somehow, through the fever induced delirium, Aramis  _heard_  him.

"We need to get back to Paris," Treville went on. "There are precious few men left to carry out our duties and the king needs to be informed about what happened. We cannot linger any longer."

Porthos watched Treville's gaze shift over to Aramis.

"Gaston and I can take the cart," Demonte suggested. "You, Captain, can ride ahead to Paris if need be."

"I'll not ask the two of you to bear that burden alone. I will ride with you. Porthos will remain behind with Aramis until he is well enough to travel."

The decision made, Gaston and Demonte left to gather their things. Both, though, paused by Aramis' bed to lightly touch the marksman's shoulder and whisper words of farewell.

Then, once again, Treville and Porthos were alone.

"If I had my way, I'd stay until his fever broke," Treville revealed as he returned to Aramis' side and reached for one of the cloths they'd been using to keep him cool.

Porthos didn't know what to say, so he just hummed a vague response and returned to his chair near the bed.

After a moment of silence, Treville spoke again, eyes pinned suddenly on Porthos.

"You are completely devoted to him, aren't you? And yet you've only known him a short time."

Porthos blinked, feeling suddenly as if his motives were being called into question.

"Things between me and him, they were easy from the start. Something about him and something about me… Our friendship feels fated, in a way. I promise you, Captain, he'll find no more devoted a brother in all his days."

Treville held his gaze seriously for a long moment. Then, he smiled slightly.

"That's a comfort to hear," the captain replied as he looked back down at the unconscious marksman. Then he backed away, handing the cloth over to Porthos. "Then I leave him in your capable hands, Porthos."

"I'll take care of him."

Treville nodded and turned to gather his things. He knelt by Aramis one final time before he left, resting a hand on the Musketeer's shoulder and leaning close.

"We've much to talk about, you and I, when you are well again. See that you don't keep me waiting too long in that regard."

Then Treville was gone and Porthos was alone.

The weight of the huge responsibility he'd been left with settled heavily on his shoulders and he pulled his chair even closer to the bed.

"You can't die now, 'Mis," he whispered. "I think he might kill me if you do."

* * *

The entire day and half the night passed with no change. Then, as Porthos fought off sleep in his chair, he noticed sweat glistening on Aramis' skin.

He sat forward abruptly, pressing his hand to Aramis' chest.

Still uncomfortably warm, but noticeably cooler than it had been an hour ago.

The fever was breaking.

Feeling weak, Porthos dropped his head down to rest on the bed near Aramis' elbow and wept. He didn't even try to blame it on exhaustion, though he was sure that played a part. Instead, he readily admitted to himself the tears came from pure emotion, namely  _relief._

When he opened his eyes again, the morning sun was pouring through the window.

Porthos sat up with a start, heart pounding when he realized he'd fallen asleep.

On the bed, Aramis lay unmoving, the heaving chest and writhing movements nowhere to be seen.

Terrified Aramis had died while he slept, he pressed a hand to the marksman's chest and studied his lax face closely.

Ribs rose and fell easily and smoothly beneath his palm and Aramis' skin was cool to the touch.

The worst had finally passed.

"Devil's luck you've got, brother," Porthos mused.

With a relieved sigh, he forced himself to his feet and stretched his aching back.

He walked to the leftover food from dinner the night before and munched a piece of bread. He downed the entire glass of wine in one go and wished idly for another.

Porthos was just preparing to perhaps go in search of a whole bottle when a moan from the bed had him dropping the glass to the table with a crack and rushing back to his Aramis' side.

"Aramis?" he called gently, trying to rouse the man from slumber.

Aramis' brow furrowed and then, without any further delay, his eyes fluttered open.

Porthos smiled, feeling once again weak with relief.

"There you are," he greeted. "Beginin' to worry you were gone for good."

Aramis grimaced, swallowing thickly. His hand drifted clumsily to his head and Porthos caught it gently.

"Easy," he soothed. "Best not go fumblin' about up there just yet."

Aramis' eyes were confused and exhausted, but more lucid than Porthos had seen them since Aramis rode out for Savoy nearly three weeks ago.

" _¿Que pasó?"_  ( _What happened?)_ he murmured, voice gravelly with sleep and lack of use.

Porthos reached for the water pitcher beside the bed and poured the liquid into the cup he'd had ready for this moment.

"Here." He helped Aramis lift his head and pressed the cup to his lips. "Slowly now. You've not eaten proper in days and this might unsettle you."

Aramis obediently drank and didn't protest when Porthos took the cup away.

" _¿Que pasó?"_  he asked again.

Porthos shook his head.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," he admitted.

Aramis seemed immediately aware of what the problem was and grimaced. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach for his head again, and Porthos preemptively caught it in his own again.

"Sorry," Aramis mumbled. "I can't… I don't always realize…"

"No harm done," Porthos assured.

"What…" Aramis paused, wincing against some hidden pain, and clenching his eyes closed. A breath later he forced them open again. "What happened?"

Porthos considered him carefully.

"You don't remember?"

"I, uh…" Aramis blinked and frowned. His hand, still trapped by Porthos', twitched again. "I don't…" His frown deepened and the confusion in his gaze told the truth of the of matter well enough.

"Easy," Porthos soothed as he saw agitation rising in his friend's dark eyes. "It'll come back soon enough, no need to rush it. Just rest now. I've a draught for pain if you need it."

Aramis shook his head slightly only to pale dangerously and clench his eyes closed.

"Yeah, best not be jostlin' that head of yours around too much. You took quite the knock. Changed your mind on that pain draught?"

They stayed in a tense silence while Aramis took carefully controlled breathes. His hand, previously restrained by Porthos, was now gripping Porthos' so tightly his fingers were going numb.

"'Mis?"

"Not certain I could keep it down," Aramis finally admitted as he forced his eyes open and met Porthos' gaze. "Actually fairly certain I couldn't."

"Bloody head wounds," Porthos grumbled in sympathy.

Aramis hummed a vague agreement, eyes falling closed again.

Porthos might have thought he'd fallen back asleep if not for the crushing grip of his hand. He didn't complain, though, instead just waited patiently. If squeezing the life out of Porthos' hand gave Aramis some comfort, he'd gladly make the sacrifice and then offer up his other hand as well.

"Porthos?" Aramis asked eventually.

"Hmm?"

Aramis opened his eyes again, weary brown gaze finding Porthos'.

"What happened?"

Porthos sighed and lightly returned a bit of the grip Aramis had on his hand. He'd meant it as a comfort, but it seemed only to draw Aramis' attention to their joined appendages. A moment later, Aramis' hand withdrew.

"Don't worry about that now, 'Mis. Just rest."

Aramis looked for a moment like he would argue, but exhaustion seemed to win out in the end.

"'Mis…" Aramis mused as he let his eyes fall closed again. "My mother called me 'Mis."

"I'm sorry," Porthos offered contritely, not sure if him using the nickname was altogether welcome now.

"No," Aramis sighed. "Don't mind it from you so much…"

"Generous of you," Porthos teased gently.

He saw a ghost of a smile twitch across Aramis lips before he relaxed against the mattress and his breathing evened out in sleep.

* * *

The first thing Aramis was aware of when he forced away the shroud of sleep again was a nagging, throbbing pain in his head, focused somewhere above his right ear. Nothing to be done for that, he did his best to ignore it. In doing so, he became aware of a few more things.

A gnawing hunger, a faint stench of sweat, a less intense ache of pain in his leg, a vague ache in his side, a weight of something on his wrist, and something coarse brushing against his arm. Intrigued now, Aramis forced his eyes open.

Or he tried to. It took several attempts before he actually succeeded.

He didn't understand how he could feel so  _exhausted_  before he'd even properly woken up.

Finally, though, he got his eyes open and found himself looking at a dirty, slightly rotted ceiling. Frowning – because the ceiling in his quarters at the Garrison were neither dirty nor rotted – he opened his mouth to call out for Marsac.

A vision, fragmented memories really, flashed through his mind – Marsac staring at him from the midst of a forest of bodies. Marsac dropping his uniform. Marsac walking away even as Aramis called out for him.

Snapping his mouth closed, Aramis felt an unfamiliar feeling rise in his chest: betrayal.

Marsac, his closest friend, the man more like a brother than his true brother had ever been, had left him to die alone. The brotherhood they'd built had meant nothing in the end.

Aramis swallowed and closed his eyes as more memory filtered in slowly as broken, disjointed pieces. He saw flashes of a battle, images of men in masks, memories of his dead brothers all around him. Pain flared in his leg as he recalled pieces of his battle with the leader, his hand twitching as he remembered slashing the man across the back. He had to clench his eyes closed again when a sharp pain lanced through his head – though he couldn't remember what had caused it.

They were all dead. All twenty men he'd led into Savoy, save Marsac. Marsac was gone, had abandoned his duty, had abandoned  _him_  when he'd needed him the most.

Aramis lifted his hand, mindless of the weight on it and reached to touch his head, trying vainly to ease the throbbing within his skull.

A sharp intake of breath nearby startled Aramis into opening his eyes again. He found a familiar pair of brown eyes blinking down at him in sleepy confusion.

"You're awake," Porthos realized blearily.

Aramis stared at him.

When had Porthos gotten here? When had he…? Another memory, even vaguer than the others, drifted across his mind. A voice. A constant voice amidst his nightmares, grounding him, guiding him back.

"You don't remember being awake before, do you?" Porthos asked suddenly, perhaps seeing something in Aramis' face.

Aramis started to shake his head – because  _no_  he didn't – but aborted the movement immediately when it sharpened the pain there.

"Yeah," Porthos sighed out a weary chuckle, "if you did, you'd remember not to do that again any time soon."

Aramis frowned at him.

"Why are you here?" Aramis asked, only to wince when he heard the hoarseness of his own voice.

"Here," Porthos offered, retrieving a cup from somewhere beyond Aramis' view. He reached for Aramis' head, likely to lift it so he could drink, but Aramis found himself shying away from the touch.

Porthos blinked at him in confusion.

"Would you rather I propped you up with pillows?" Porthos guessed, brushing off the reaction. A moment later, Aramis found himself being gently levered up and new pillows being stuffed in behind him. Porthos eased him back against them and offered the cup again.

Aramis took it, glaring at his hand as it shook, and then glaring at Porthos when he reached to help. He ended up spilling a fair bit down into his beard, but managed to drink some as well. Porthos took the cup back before Aramis could attempt to set it aside himself – or drop it as would likely have been the actual result.

"Think you could eat?" Porthos asked. "The 'keeper brought some broth. Still warm now, I expect."

Aramis stared at him again, wondering for the second time when exactly Porthos had gotten here.

"'Mis?"

Aramis' gaze sharpened to a glare. His mother had called him 'Mis, no one else.

"Don't call me that."

Porthos blinked in surprise, looking genuinely shocked.

"I'm sorry," he apologized immediately.

"What are you doing here?" Aramis demanded, eyes flashing to the door at the sound of boots out in the hallway. He tensed, waiting to see if the sound heralded a new attack, but the boot steps faded away. He turned his gaze warily back to Porthos.

"We came for you," Porthos explained slowly, "after what happened." He paused. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked hesitantly.

Aramis glared and let that be answer enough.

"You do," Porthos realized, something like sympathy rising in his gaze.

Aramis didn't know why, but the sight of it angered him.

"Where's Treville?" he demanded. If they knew what had happened, if Porthos was here, then Treville would have come too.

"He's not here," Porthos revealed. "He's on his way back to Paris with…" he hesitated, "with the others."

Aramis blinked and Porthos was gone. In his place, Aramis saw frozen bodies, blood stained snow, and oppressive trees. His breath caught and he brought up a hand to cover his eyes, trying to banish the memory.

"Aramis?" Porthos' voice was rich with worry and concern.

Something ignited in Aramis, something dark and angry. He couldn't even say where it came from, only that it was suddenly  _there_. He knew that he was not a cruel man. He was not, by nature, harsh or cold.

But he also knew that he had a temper.

It was not easy to spark; his easy going, cavalier personality usually balanced any negative feelings before they could become anything more than a thought.  _But_ , when his temper ignited, it burned hot and fast. Marc had told him once, back in their shared infantry days, that Aramis was like gunpowder. On his own, he was cool and loose, seemed from a distance no more dangerous than a grain of sand. But up close, he was darker and held an air of undeniable danger. And most importantly, when sparked – he exploded.

He didn't know why Porthos' genuine concern for him, his sympathy and worry, grated at him, but it did.

"Go," he hissed, dropping his hand to glare at the wall across from him.

"What?" The shock in Porthos' voice was real and the large man froze where he sat.

" _Go_. Leave. I don't want you here."

As soon as he said it, something in his chest tightened, rebelling against his own words. The thought of being left alone, even just in this room, sent his heart thundering against his ribs.

"Aramis…" Porthos tried again.

Aramis clenched his jaw, closing his eyes as his emotions went to war within him. The anger, hot and bright, was still there. But there was fear as well. Heart pounding, breath stealing  _fear._

"Leave me!" he snapped, the anger making his voice hard and sharp. He did not want Porthos to witness his weakness. He did not want his concern or his worry. He was having a hard enough time holding himself together as it was.

But…even as he felt the rage burning through him, another traitorous thought whispered through his mind.

_Don't leave me here._

The very thought of Porthos doing as he had demanded and walking out that door sent his hands trembling and brought sweat to his brow.

When Porthos shifted in his seat, Aramis had to fight back the urge to reach out and grab him, to hold him in place, to beg him to  _stay_.

Porthos went still again and Aramis wondered if he'd given away the conflict raging inside him.

"You asked me not to," the larger man revealed.

Aramis frowned. He had done just the opposite.

"When?" he demanded.

"When you were taken with fever," Porthos admitted. "You begged me to stay."

Aramis frowned, missing the furrow of confused concern in Porthos' brow.

_Don't leave me here._

Had he said the words aloud in his delirium? Had he begged Porthos to stay by his side like a frightened child? Surely he hadn't. Surely he hadn't been that weak. His father's voice rumbled lowly through his mind, reminding him of the lessons so firmly taught in his youth.

_If you cannot stand alone, you do not deserve to stand at all._

_The d'Herblay name represents_ _**strength** _ _not weakness._

Weakness. A forbidden trait in his father's world.

_Are you weak, Rene?_

He had never been allowed the chance. His father had gone to great lengths to ensure his son would never be an embarrassment to him.

_You will not be weak._

He wouldn't be.

"Hardly in my right mind, then," he hissed defensively at Porthos.

Aramis clenched his mouth closed after that, barely believing his own words. Porthos was his friend, had been well on his way to being as much a brother as Marsac had been. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Marsac had betrayed him, betrayed their brotherhood. If he could not trust Marsac when it mattered most, then how could he ever trust anyone else?

"I'm not leaving," Porthos decided, tone unyielding.

"Fine." Aramis fixed his gaze on the wall and tried to sort out if he was relieved or angered by Porthos' resolve.

They sat in a charged silence for a moment.

"Aramis what's wrong?" Porthos asked quietly.

Aramis cut his eyes over to glare at the other man.

"What kind of question is that?" he spat lowly.  _Everything_  was wrong; that should be obvious.

"Easy," Porthos held up a hand in surrender, eyeing Aramis warily. "I only meant you weren't like this before."

"Like what?"

"Angry."

Aramis frowned. He had every right to be angry, hadn't he? He'd seen twenty of his brothers cut down like animals. His best friend, his  _brother,_  had betrayed and abandoned him.

He slid a hand up into his hair in agitation and froze when his fingers skimmed across bare scalp.

"My hair…"

"Physician had to cut it away," Porthos admitted. "The wounds on your head were nasty business."

Wounds. Plural. As in more than one. Carefully, Aramis slid his hand back to the base of his skull, feeling the cloth bandaging wrapped there. The he shifted his attention to his temple – his greatest source of pain – fingers drifting across that bandage as well. He didn't remember receiving either at the moment. And it was no wonder, honestly. With two severe blows to the head, it was a blessing he had any senses left at all.

A door slammed down the hall and Aramis tensed, his unoccupied hand clenching in the bedsheets as his eyes darted around the room in search of his weapons.

"Easy," Porthos soothed, rising from his seat and moving to the other side of the small room.

He rummaged through a pile of things on the table, his body blocking Aramis from seeing exactly what. A few moments later, Porthos spoke again.

"If I give you this," the large Musketeer turned, brandishing one of Aramis' pistols in one hand, "do you promise not to use it on  _me_?"

Aramis rolled his eyes and channeled the unexpected pain  _that_  action caused into the glare he leveled at Porthos. He held out his hand, forcing it to stay steady by pure will power.

Porthos approached again and handed over the weapon without hesitation.

"You're safe here, you know," the larger man pointed out as he sat down again, eyeing Aramis with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

"Am I?" Aramis challenged darkly as he focused on checking over the pistol. It needed to be cleaned and oiled. "Have you got…"

A small pouch – one he recognized as his  _own_  – dropped into his lap. He knew it to contain his cleaning tools.

He shifted a glance up at Porthos through his lashes.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

They fell into an uncomfortable silence as Aramis began the practiced task of cleaning his pistol. Though he couldn't  _quite_  stop his hands from shaking, his movements were sure and true. It was calming in a way he hadn't even known he needed until now.

He hardly even noticed when Porthos moved again and could only blink in surprise when his second pistol – the twin of the one he held now – slid onto the bed next to his leg.

"I'd bet that one could use a clean as well," Porthos commented. "Then some food, yeah?"

Aramis slid another glance in Porthos' direction and nodded his agreement.

A loud, raucous laugh rose from down in the common area, and without meaning too, Aramis stiffened, his hands stilling with the cleaning rod and cloth still down the barrel of the pistol. He found himself mentally calculating how quickly he could get the weapon loaded – not very since he had no ammunition handy – and whether that would be fast enough if it came down to it.

But the laughter died down a moment later and his wariness was proven unfounded.

He felt Porthos' gaze on him and lightly cleared his throat, forcing his hands to start moving again.

"You know I'd defend you, right? If it came to it?" Porthos abruptly told him, drawing Aramis' gaze up to his.

Aramis twitched his lips into a smirk, patting his hand against the pistol still resting by his thigh.

"I'm quite capable," he pointed out.

"I've no doubt," Porthos agreed. "It's not a matter of if you  _need_  me to, simply that I  _would_."

He'd thought the same of Marsac not so long ago. He'd believed, without reservation, that Marsac would always have his back. Events had proven him a fool in that regard. Marsac's betrayal had quite clearly taught him that he could rely on no one but himself.

So he merely shrugged in the face of Porthos' promise and went back about his pistol cleaning.

He felt the other Musketeer's gaze steady on him as he worked, but did not look up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Six
> 
> As you can see, Aramis pre-Savoy (or at least memory of it) and Aramis immediately post-Savoy are two very different people. Have the same patience with him that Porthos undoubtedly will. The poor man's been through the ringer.
> 
> Those of you wondering, yes, Athos WILL be in this. Just not yet. They will all three come together, promise. I wanted him to have a fitting entrance into their lives, not just 'show up'. You'll know what I mean when we get there ;)
> 
> Until tomorrow, please take a moment to drop me a line to let me know how you're enjoying it!
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "Are you sure about this?" Porthos asked doubtfully as he hovered over Aramis' shoulder.
> 
> The smaller man was sitting up in the bed, feet swung over the side and pressing against the floor.
> 
> "Quite," he replied simply.
> 
> "But…"
> 
> "Either help me, or leave me."
> 
> Porthos snapped his mouth closed and blew out a frustrated breath. He debated marching across the village to retrieve the physician and inform him of his patient's reckless disregard for his health. Before he could decide whether such intervention would be needed, Aramis was levering himself up.
> 
> He wavered immediately and might have fallen right back if not for Porthos' quick step closer to brace him.
> 
> "Bloody, stubborn fool," he hissed as he shifted to support Aramis' back with one arm and grip his nearest elbow with the other.


	7. Brother, I'm Right Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Six: Thimblerig, issa, Lady_Neve, and shanachie
> 
> sorry this is a bit late!

 

 

" _Brotherhood" isn't just a word, it's a total dedication to each other or your club, not just when it's convenient…many people say it but very few live it.  
_ _ **Unknown**_

* * *

_April 7, 1625  
_ _Outlying Village, Savoy_

* * *

Porthos toed open the door to the room he shared with Aramis and nearly dropped the tray he was carrying. Aramis, who had been moodily cleaning his pistols  _again_  when he had left, was now curled towards the wall, an arm hooked over his eyes and his shoulders tense in a way Porthos had come to associate with a silent, involuntary admission of pain. Considering he hadn't seen the man put his back to the door – or even to  _him_ – since he'd woken, alarm tightened further in his chest.

"Aramis?" he called in concern as he entered the room.

He watched the marksman twitch at the sound of his voice. Confused, and more than a bit worried, Porthos dropped the tray onto the table, frowning deeply when Aramis twitched again. Realizing the loud noises were apparently making whatever was wrong  _worse_ , he pitched his voice in a low whisper.

"What's wrong?" he asked, kneeling to retrieve the cleaning rod and cloth that had fallen to the floor. He reached over Aramis' legs for the pistol, oil, and brush next, shifting them over to the small table beside the bed.

Aramis didn't answer him, just curled further towards the wall and tightened the arm he had over his eyes.

Chewing his lower lip, Porthos glanced around, trying to work out what had caused this. Aramis was obviously in pain and the problem was clearly with his head. But he'd been alright not more than ten minutes ago. Porthos eyed the window, curtain thrown open to allow in the bright mid-afternoon light. Aramis  _did_  have his eyes covered…

His lack of attention on the marksman left him caught completely by surprise when Aramis suddenly shifted.

"'m gonna be sick…" was all the warning Aramis was able to give him before the wounded Musketeer was twisting away from the wall.

Porthos couldn't do more than fall back onto his rear before Aramis was violently expelling his breakfast down the front of Porthos' shirt. Grimacing, Porthos pushed himself back up and rested a hand on the nape of Aramis' neck.

The marksman groaned.

"'M sorry," he offered miserably.

Porthos rubbed his hand across Aramis' tense shoulders.

"And after I lent you my spare shirt," he teased gently.

Aramis huffed in what Porthos hoped might be amusement, rolling back onto the bed. His eyes were tightly closed, but even so, he immediately draped his hand over his face to cover them.

Porthos stood, moving as silently as he could to the window to draw the curtain closed. He thought he might have heard Aramis sigh in relief.

"Your head, is it?" Porthos whispered as he peeled off his soiled shirt.

"It…" Aramis swallowed thickly and slowly withdrew the hand he had over his eyes, but didn't open them. "It was building all morning, I think."

"You didn't notice?" Porthos wondered as he knelt next to the bed to use his shirt to mop up what little of the mess had made it to the floor.

"Well, my head is  _constantly_ hurting Porthos," Aramis pointed out sourly. "So you can see how it might have escaped my notice."

Porthos drew in a slow breath and let it out carefully, refusing to let his temper be baited. He was used to such responses already, even after only a day.

Aramis had…not been himself since he had woken with memories of the massacre painfully intact. He'd been short tempered and anxious, almost painfully vigilant of everything going on beyond the four walls of their room. How he'd managed to analyze the various inn patrons by just  _listening_  – and he  _had_  because he'd gone over them with Porthos only this morning – was a skill Porthos already envied, even if it was a bit frightening. When he slept – which was often since he was still recovering – it was restless and riddled with nightmares. The worst though, that Porthos had seen, were the  _waking_  nightmares – the moments where it seemed as if Aramis had been transported back to that snowy forest and was reliving all that had happened there. His gaze would grow distant in those moments, terrifyingly so, and it always took a firm call to draw him out of it. He'd be shaky and pale for easily an hour after those spells and he'd flatly refuse to talk at all for at least half that time.

Porthos was not entirely unfamiliar with such behavior. He'd been in the infantry for three years before Treville had found him and in that time he'd seen a few nastier skirmishes. Some men who had been in the worst parts of those battles had acted in a similar way for a time afterwards. Some had remained affected even longer.

" _Every man reacts to the violence of battle in his own way,"_  Treville had said of the sniveling scout, Anton.

Porthos suspected, though, that it was the particular nature of  _this_  violence that was causing such distress.

What had happened to Aramis, what he'd witnessed and survived, was unlike anything Porthos had ever faced in his time in the infantry. He found himself at a loss now about how to help.

He hadn't been there. He didn't  _know_  what Aramis had gone through during the massacre or the five days that had followed. And Aramis, for his part, would not speak of it.

A door slammed down the hall. Porthos reached out to lightly touch Aramis' arm even as the man's hand flew unerringly towards the pistol on the side table without ever opening his eyes.

"Easy," he soothed softly.

But it wasn't until quiet reigned around them for several moments before Aramis relaxed.

"Rest now," Porthos instructed as he stood. "I'll be back."

He was surprised when a strong hand wrapped around his wrist as soon as he started to move away. He looked down at Aramis, but the marksman's eyes were still closed. As Porthos watched, Aramis clenched his jaw and uncurled his fingers from Porthos' wrist. Porthos wondered if he'd even meant to reach out in the first place.

"I won't be long," Porthos promised quietly, offering reassurance that had not been asked for.

Aramis didn't respond. Instead he reached again towards the side table. Porthos grabbed the pistol and slid it into Aramis' hand.

He received no thanks, but the slight easing of tension in Aramis' face was enough for now.

He made his way quietly out of the room, not even remembering he was shirtless until the innkeeper's wife blushed as he asked about the cost of having his shirt washed. Red faced, she agreed to wash it free of charge and suggested a cool cloth for Aramis' head. She claimed it eased her own headaches when she had them.

Armed then with fresh cloths and a bowl of the coolest water he could find, Porthos returned to his room. Aramis didn't react when he opened the door, but then he never seemed startled by Porthos' arrival. This was a man who analyzed inn patrons by their boot steps and the way they closed their doors, after all. He likely recognized Porthos' approach before he even made it near their room.

The marksman's eyes were still closed with his pistol resting lightly across his chest. His free hand was pressing against his brow, fingers inching towards the bandage that covered his temple.

Porthos put the bowl onto the small table by Aramis' head and gently caught his searching fingers.

"Leave it," he whispered.

Aramis scowled but didn't argue. His scowl deepened when Porthos rested the first of the chilled cloths against his brow, resting it over the bandages as well.

"Easy," Porthos soothed. "It'll help."

He said nothing more after that, and Aramis didn't either. After a time, the marksman slowly relaxed and the tight grip he kept on his pistol loosened. He shifted a little, head angling towards Porthos, before he settled further, going still.

Porthos continued to replace the cloths, one after the other, for a long time after that.

* * *

_April 8, 1625  
_ _Outlying Village, Savoy_

* * *

Aramis shivered, reaching blindly for his ever-present mound of blankets that had somehow drifted to his waist as he slept. He found the frayed edge of fabric and jerked it up, frowning when it met resistance.

Perhaps Porthos had fallen asleep at his side again and was weighing it down. The large man tended to sleep always close at hand.

Aramis pried his eyes open, wincing at the moonlight shining through the open window.

Sure enough, a head of curly black hair was pressing against his hip.

Aramis pulled experimentally on the blanket again, but it didn't budge.

"Porth's," he mumbled sleepily as he nudged at the other man. He realized belatedly that perhaps he should have just suffered the cold and let the poor man sleep. God knew Porthos deserved a reprieve after his long day of dealing with Aramis' injuries and moodiness.

He was relieved, in the end, when Porthos didn't respond to his nudge or his call.

He started to shift, ready to find a comfortable position to return to sleep, when he noticed something odd about the way Porthos was lying.

He was a facing away from Aramis, not towards him.

A small thing, perhaps, to most, but for Aramis it was a warning beacon.

Every time he'd been caught asleep at Aramis' side, Porthos had  _always_  been facing him, as if he'd fallen asleep watching over him.

"Porthos?" Aramis called warily as he levered himself up onto his elbow with a wince. The wound on his side pulled and ached, but he shoved the pain aside. "Porthos," he called again, more firmly as he reached to touch the other man's shoulder.

The light pressure sent Porthos tilting away from him, falling in a heap to the floor.

Aramis clawed at the edge of the bed, nearly throwing himself to the floor in his haste to see what had befallen his comrade.

Porthos stared up at him from the floor with sightless eyes. His face was pale, almost blue, and his throat was laid open with a bloody slash.

"No…" Aramis blinked, willing the image away, but it remained. " _No_."

 _Aramis_.

Aramis flinched at the sound of the large man's voice as it echoed around him, though the body's lips hadn't moved.

"Porthos!" he called sharply, trying to climb from the bed to check the man for life. Surely he wasn't dead. Porthos hadn't been there. Porthos had been  _safe_. "PORTHOS!"

He hit the ground with a jarring crash, pain pulsing through his head even as his wounded leg cried out its own objection.

_Aramis!_

"PORTHOS!" He twisted his hands in the larger man's shirt, shaking him roughly. " _¡Despiértate!"(Wake up!)_  he shouted.

 _Wake up, Aramis!_ His voice mocked him, echoing loudly around him.

"PORTHOS!"

_I'm here!_

Aramis shook the body before him again.

"Porth…"

Or perhaps he was the one being shaken. An ache settled in his arms as if strong hands were wrapped around them.

_Aramis, wake up! I'm –_

Aramis shuddered as the whole world shifted around him.

" _-_ here! Wake up, Aramis!"

"Porthos!"

Porthos' face, once still with death, was replaced by one flushed with exertion. Eyes that had been staring without seeing changed to a familiar brown gaze, filled with worry and their own measure of fear.

"I'm here!" Porthos assured breathlessly.

Aramis reached out instinctively, hands twisting into the man's shirt, frowning when he realized he was still in the bed, never having left it at all. He felt the warmth of Porthos' skin through the thin material and it grounded him.

He was warm and alive, not cold and dead.

Not dead.

" _Estas vivo_ ," Aramis realized with a relieved gasp. Then again because he wanted to be certain, "You're alive."

"I'm alive," Porthos assured firmly. "I'm alive and I'm here, all right? I'm right here."

Aramis felt the bruising grip of Porthos' large hands on his arms now. He felt his own body betraying him as he trembled within the other man's grasp.

It had been so real.

"You're alive," he said again, unable to help but fixate on that. It was the most important point after all.

Porthos seemed to heave a sigh of relief so large it filled the entire space between them.

"Yeah," he assured again.

Finally, Aramis tore his eyes away from where his hands were fisted in Porthos' shirt to meet the man's gaze.

He wasn't sure what he expected.

Pity, perhaps. Judgement or annoyance.

All he found was warmth and worry.

He didn't know what to do with that.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as he tried to push aside his own lingering fear. "I woke you," he realized.

"I don't care about that," Porthos replied sternly, hands still tight on Aramis' arms. "Are you alright?" he demanded, voice thick with warmth and compassion.

"I'm fine," Aramis replied, ignoring the way his voice shook and exposing his weakness.

"Aramis…"

"I'm fine," he said again, stronger this time. An embarrassed blush colored his neck when he realized he still clutched at Porthos' shirt like a child. He averted his gaze, pried his fingers out of the folds of fabric, and eased away, forcing Porthos to either release his own hold or follow him as he slid back to lean against the wall.

Porthos, though he looked reluctant, loosened his grip and let Aramis pull away.

Aramis rested his head back and drew in a slow breath, trying to calm his still frayed nerves.

It hadn't been real. It had only been a dream. A horrible, gut-wrenching,  _awful_  dream.

It wasn't real.

"Aramis."

Porthos hadn't been in Savoy with them. He had been safe back in Paris, far away from men in masks and forests of snow.

"Aramis?"

Porthos hadn't  _been_  there. And yet, he was here now. He was worrying and coddling. He was losing sleep dealing with Aramis' nightmares and spending his days seeing to Aramis' every need.

Why?

They'd barely known each other before. Their friendship had been a new thing; flourishing, yes, but too young to merit such devotion. Why had Porthos chosen to stay behind with him?

Was it guilt?

Did he feel guilty for not being with them in Savoy? It made sense, Aramis realized with a jolt. Any soldier would feel the same when so many brothers had been lost while they remained safely away from the conflict. It was guilt that kept Porthos at his side now, nothing more.

It wasn't true compassion in his eyes, in his voice. It was a lie to spare his own conscience.

It was false brotherhood, just as it had been with Marsac.

Marsac had seemed to be all the things Porthos was now. He had appeared to care, to worry, to be concerned about Aramis' fate. But in the end, all that was between them had been proven false.

Their brotherhood had been worthless, meaningless. He had convinced himself into thinking he had found in Marsac that which his blood brother had always denied him. Acceptance. Devotion. Loyalty. All the things Aramis gave so freely to others. Things he had believed Marsac gave back just as deeply.

But it had all been lies. He had been naïve to think that a  _chosen_  brotherhood could mean any more than Vincent's had. If his brother by birth could never accept him, then how could he believe that anyone else could? Blood had meant nothing to Vincent and years of history with Marsac had  _amounted_ to nothing.

How could he ever expect more from Porthos, whose history with him spanned mere weeks? It was obvious now. Porthos remained with him out of nothing but guilt and well hidden pity.

There was no true brotherhood between them. Just as there had been none between him and Marsac.

Brotherhood was nothing but a fleeting lie. He had failed to learn that lesson twice now. He would not be fooled again.

"Aramis!"

A hand touched his shoulder and Aramis reacted instinctively.  _Defensively_.

A muffled grunt and then thud.

A glance found Porthos sitting on the floor, holding a hand to his nose.

"Bloody hell," Porthos muttered, pulling his hand away to reveal blood. "Fine thanks, that."

Aramis swallowed, feeling a swell of remorse.

"I'm sorry," he offered. "I hit you," he added as if that hadn't been clear.

"Yeah," Porthos rolled his eyes. "You  _did._  Again with the bloody obvious. Aramis, would you…would you  _look at me_ ," Porthos growled.

Aramis snapped his gaze back to meet the larger man's guiltily.

For as much as he couldn't let himself trust Porthos' motives, he didn't wish the man any harm. He hadn't done anything to merit violence.

Porthos opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and then sighed.

Finally, he pushed himself off the floor and dug into his saddle bag by the door. He produced a small worn object.

"Cards?" he offered tiredly.

Too taken aback by the offer to do anything more than nod dumbly, Aramis could only watch as Porthos righted the chair that was overturned on the floor and pushed it closer to the bed.

"Kings high," Porthos dictated as he sat and shuffled the deck. "You're familiar?" he asked.

Aramis thought back to long nights on watch spent playing cards with Marc back in the infantry.

He nodded.

Without another word, Porthos dealt.

* * *

_April 10, 1625  
_ _Outlying village, Savoy_

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Porthos asked doubtfully as he hovered over Aramis' shoulder.

The smaller man was sitting up in the bed, feet swung over the side and pressing against the floor.

"Quite," he replied simply.

"But…"

"Either  _help_  me, or  _leave_  me."

Porthos snapped his mouth closed and blew out a frustrated breath. He debated marching across the village to retrieve the physician and inform him of his patient's reckless disregard for his health. Before he could decide whether such intervention would be needed, Aramis was levering himself up.

He wavered immediately and might have fallen right back if not for Porthos' quick step closer to brace him.

"Bloody, stubborn  _fool_ ," he hissed as he shifted to support Aramis' back with one arm and grip his nearest elbow with the other.

"Such sweet nothings you whisper, Porthos," Aramis replied breathlessly. "You could make a weaker man swoon."

"You seem to be swooning quite enough on your own without any help from me," Porthos ground out.

"Nonsense," Aramis swallowed thickly. "Just getting my bearings."

"You're not ready for this," Porthos pointed out firmly, weighing the benefit of forcing the man back into bed.

"Porthos," Aramis replied sharply, "I need to  _move_. I'll lose my mind if I don't."

Porthos sighed. Aramis had been restless since he'd woken hours before dawn. He'd cleaned both his pistols,  _Porthos'_  pistol, sharpened both their daggers, and fussed over his rapier, all before the sun had even risen. His dreams that night had been unrelenting, as they tended to be nowadays, but not as heart-stopping as other nights had been. He hadn't woken screaming Porthos' name, for one.

But being stuck in bed seemed to just agitate him all the more.

Porthos suspected it had something to do with feeling helpless and he couldn't quite blame Aramis for wanting to do whatever it took to rid himself of that feeling.

"Fine then," Porthos allowed quietly. "Slowly, though. One step at a time, all right? And if you feel faint or dizzy,  _say_  something."

Aramis grunted his agreement and then, carefully, Porthos supported him as he took a limping step forward.

To Porthos' relief, his injured leg didn't immediately collapse beneath him.

Aramis huffed a surprised little chuckle and then cleared his throat, trying – and failing – not to look relieved.

"Told you."

Porthos rolled his eyes.

* * *

_April 12, 1625  
_ _Outlying Village, Savoy_

* * *

Aramis eyed the saddled horse before him with a frown. He toyed with his hat – retrieved from the forest by Treville according to Porthos – and then settled it gingerly on his head, mindful of his wounds. The bandages were gone now, but the healing scars were still tender.

He narrowed his gaze at the horse again.

Mounting a horse should not pose this sort of a problem. A month ago it wouldn't have. Of course, a couple of weeks ago he hadn't thought he'd ever mount a horse again.

It had been a week now since he'd woken in the inn with Porthos at his side. Two in all since he'd been injured in the first place. Even though it still pained him, his leg was strong enough to bear the saddle. And his head, though a persistent aching had settled in and refused to leave, had mostly calmed and steadied. It was time to leave.

But first, he had to get onto that horse.

"Sent off the dispatch to Treville so he'll be expectin' us," Porthos announced as he joined him. Aramis felt the other man's gaze on him for a long moment. "Need a boost?" Porthos eventually offered quietly. There was no teasing in his voice, just a practical sort of logic.

Aramis grimaced and rubbed at his leg. As much as pride demanded he attempt to mount himself, common sense reminded that he'd likely end up on the ground if he did.

"Perhaps," he admitted grudgingly.

A few moments later, through combined effort, he was seated in the saddle. He took a moment to be sure he wouldn't promptly fall to the ground in a graceless heap and then turned his eyes to the innkeeper.

"Thank you," he offered, "for all you have done."

The plump man just nodded, waving away the words, and disappearing back inside. Aramis glanced at Porthos who swiftly mounted his own horse.

"Ready?" Porthos asked with a weary smile.

Aramis nodded.

Together, they put their backs to the forests of Savoy and started their journey home.

* * *

Their travel was mostly quiet. Aramis was still deeply exhausted from his ordeal and Porthos seemed almost equally weary. And though he didn't want to admit to it, the ache in his head had escalated to a persistent pounding just over the short duration of their travel. He was also fairly certain that the only reason he'd been able to keep his breakfast in his stomach where it belonged was because he had his jaw clamped tightly closed.

With neither of them speaking, there was nothing around them but quiet. The silence was broken only by the sound of hooves on the road and the occasional snort or nicker from one of the borrowed horses. Aramis had never been particularly  _good_  at silence. He'd always been somewhat of a talker, prone to chatter. His mother had found it endearing and entertaining. His father, less so. But either way, he had never particularly minded quiet, even if he was notoriously poor at maintaining it.

But this was different. In  _this_  silence, Aramis didn't hear the horses and the clomp of hooves on the road. He heard the cries of the wounded and dying, the sounds of clashing steel. His mind echoed with the memories, as if he were amidst the battle even now.

And the need to escape that, to drown it out, outweighed his worry about breakfast making a sudden reappearance.

"We should have left yesterday," he blurted abruptly.

Porthos glanced at him, a worry in his gaze that Aramis was frustratingly familiar with. He was tired of being watched like he was a strong breeze away from shattering to pieces. He hated that look. Hated it more because it was so dangerously close to the truth. How could he ever feel strong again if Porthos kept watching him like he was  _broken_.

"We agreed to wait out that storm," the other Musketeer replied easily.

 _Right._  Aramis grimaced. The storm. He'd forgotten about that.

Soon, the silence stretched around them and distant cries rose in the recesses of his mind again. The clash of metal on metal echoed through the air. He shivered, feeling the cold seep deeply into his bones. The cries of pain and death grew louder, the sound of crossing blades had him fighting not to reach for his sword.

He couldn't take the silence, not for another moment.

"Have you ever been to The Empty Scabbard?" he asked suddenly, just to drown out the sounds.

Porthos gave him an odd look. It was warranted, he supposed. It was an odd and unexpected question.

"It's a tavern, in Paris," Aramis explained. He rubbed a finger carefully over his eyebrow, trying in vain to combat the throbbing in his head.

"I know what it is," Porthos replied, eyes narrowing slightly in something infuriatingly like concern. "What of it?"

"Have you been there?" Aramis repeated impatiently.

"A time or two."

"They've the best stew I've ever tasted."

It seemed, now that he'd said it, a pointless piece of information. But he'd drowned out the memories for the moment, and instead of worry in Porthos' gaze, there was confused curiosity. So in the end, he'd achieved his purpose.

"Do they?" Porthos wondered, still watching him carefully.

"And their wine is worthy of mention as well," Aramis went on, forcing himself to stop rubbing at his brow. It was doing no good anyway and the action was bringing concern back to Porthos' gaze.

The silence stretched again and the sounds of the dead and dying once more rose in his memory.

"And th' stew and th' wine, that's all your reason for going there?" Porthos broke the silence now, a vaguely amused lilt to his tone.

Aramis smiled despite himself, the sounds of battle fading to the back of his mind.

"There's a barmaid," he revealed with a sigh. "Angelique. She's…a goddess amongst mortals."

What would she think of him now? With his sheared head and brutal scars…

Porthos chuckled beside him.

"I'm sure."

Aramis realized, then, as Porthos shot him an amused glance, that this was the first time since he'd woken that there had been no concern in Porthos' gaze; no worry, no fear. Instead, Aramis only saw shared mirth.

Perhaps he'd been missing an obvious solution over these last days. Perhaps his inherent ability to  _talk_  would do more than drown out the memories. Perhaps it would be the cure to Porthos' guilty worrying. Perhaps, if Aramis could keep it up, Porthos would stop watching him like he was waiting for him to break. Perhaps he would stop pretending to  _care_  if he thought everything was alright. Maybe then Porthos would not feel so guilty, so beholden to look after him. Maybe then he would drop the façade of brotherhood and just leave Aramis be.

"Have you ever been to the Prancing Musket?"

"What kind of tavern name is that?" Porthos asked with a scoff. "Prancing Musket…" He shook his head in derision.

"They've a home brewed brandy that I've known few equals to," Aramis pointed out.

"And their barmaid?" Porthos asked with a knowing glance.

Aramis smiled. It was working.

"Jaquelin is like a wild flame. Warms you well enough, but will burn you if left unattended."

Porthos laughed and shook his head again, this time in something like exasperation…or perhaps it was amusement. In all honestly, Aramis thought it might have been a bit of both. Whichever it was, both or neither, it wasn't  _worry_  and it wasn't fake.

And further, Aramis found a comfort in the  _normalcy_  of the moment. It felt, as Porthos tried to rein in his laughter, like it had before. Before Marsac's betrayal had become a poison that cast doubt on any brotherhood Aramis and Porthos might have shared.

He could do this. He could play at normal. He could convince Porthos his concern was not needed. He could release the man from his misplaced guilt.

He could drown out the sounds of battle and wash away the memory.

He could do this.

He could wear that mask.

He  _would_  do it for both their sakes.

* * *

_April 15, 1625  
_ _The Road to Paris_

* * *

Porthos shifted on his bedroll, peeking his eye open enough to catch a look at Aramis where he lay on the other side of their small fire. The marksman wasn't even pretending to sleep anymore, likely content in the illusion that Porthos was no longer awake to hover. Not that Porthos had been  _hovering_  exactly, not in the strictest sense of the word. But he'd remained…close at hand.

Aramis was wide awake now, staring up at the starry night sky with one arm carefully folded behind his head. The hand of his other arm was placed lightly against the healing wound on his side. Aramis had put aside the act, supposing that Porthos was not awake to witness it. There was silence now. The mask was gone, a state that had become a rarity over these last few days of travel.

Porthos noticed Aramis' gaze shifting, so he quickly closed his eyes, feigning sleep. It wasn't that he meant to deceive, exactly, but he just didn't want Aramis to start with the masks and with the talking again.

Always the  _talking_.

He never stopped anymore, rarely letting silence fall between them. He just  _talked_  and made jokes and pretended.

Aramis pretended nothing had happened, that twenty Musketeers hadn't died under his command. He pretended his head wasn't constantly hurting him, that his leg and side didn't ache after long hours in the saddle. But no amount of words or even the most humorous mask could hide the lines of pain carved around his eyes. Porthos saw them. He knew the truth behind the pretense.

But something stopped Porthos from saying anything, from pulling at the mask or stopping the constant flow of words. He knew the truth. He knew Aramis needed it.

He needed it because there were other truths Porthos knew, too.

He knew that Aramis half-drew a weapon every time they heard a rustling in the trees. He knew the marksman glared tensely at every shifting shadow as if waiting for a monster to spring from it. He knew that Aramis rode with his hand always on the stock of his pistol.

He also knew that there were moments when Aramis was lost, trapped in his own mind with memories Porthos could only guess at.

He always talked faster after those moments, pretended harder. And in some way, it seemed to help. So Porthos let it continue. He let Aramis talk until his voice grew hoarse and then Porthos talked instead. He did what he could to help fill the silence because it's what Aramis seemed to need.

Porthos risked another peek and found Aramis staring up at the sky again. The sadness and tension seemed to bleed into the air, as if a day's worth of suppressing it now made it a tangible thing.

Porthos let out a silent sigh and closed his eyes again.

They would be back in Paris soon and back to Treville. The captain had known Aramis for years; he would know what to do. He  _had_ to…because Porthos didn't. And something had to be done.

Aramis couldn't go on like this, not forever. But he could make it back to Paris, Porthos would make sure of it.

* * *

_April 19, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Garrison, Paris_

* * *

Treville looked up from his desk when a knock came at his door.

"Enter," he called sharply.

Cornet leaned through the door, looking vaguely annoyed.

"A Red Guard here to see you, sir."

Treville frowned.

"Who?"

"Defrain."

Ah. Treville had been wondering how long it would take him to find a reason to check in.

"Tell him I'll be down in a moment."

Treville looked back down at the letter in his hands, the last of the condolences he would need to send to families. It had taken him a week, after they'd returned, to get them all written. He laid it carefully on the pile with the rest and rose, snatching his doublet off his chair. He shrugged into it as he headed towards the door.

He caught sight of Marc Defrain leaning against the entry gate, glaring at Cornet who was glaring back.

"Back to your duties, Cornet," Treville barked as he came down the steps.

With one last glower at the Red Guard, Cornet walked away.

"Defrain," Treville greeted with a nod, extending a hand as the man approached him.

"Captain Treville," Defrain replied gruffly, shaking his hand firmly. "Is it true?" he asked quietly and without preamble.

The captain didn't even bother feigning confusion.

"He's alive," he assured because he knew  _that_  would be the man's main concern.

Defrain cast a glance around, eyes searching.

"He's not back yet," Treville revealed.

The other soldier stiffened, clearing his throat and trying, in vain, not to look like he'd been  _looking_.

"When?" he asked gruffly.

"I expect them this evening at the latest."

Defrain met his gaze then and Treville resisted the urge to reach out and squeeze the younger man's shoulder. The soldier's worry was written in his eyes even if his expression remained stern.

"How is he?" the Red Guard asked lowly, as if concerned about being overheard.

"As far as I know, he's recovering," Treville replied. That was what Porthos' latest dispatch had indicated at least.

Defrain nodded.

"Good. I still owe him for that pig shit business," he pointed out brusquely.

Treville nodded, allowing the excuse. Aramis and Defrain's friendship was an odd thing. Built on competition and friendly rivalry, they were more often at each other's throats than anything. But when the cards were down, Treville knew Defrain had proven himself a true friend when it mattered, and that Aramis had done the same.

The Red Guard shifted and fished something out of his pocket.

"A message from the king by way of the cardinal." He thrust a folded and sealed note towards Treville. Delivering such a thing was beneath a soldier who had been in the Red Guard regiment for as long as Defrain, but Treville didn't comment on that.

"Tell him I…" the young soldier trailed off and cleared his throat. "Never mind."

Treville gave in to his earlier urge and gripped Defrain's shoulder.

"I'll tell him you came," he assured.

The Red Guard nodded sharply and turned on his heel, all but marching out of the Garrison. Once he was gone, Treville looked down at the note in his hands. He broke the seal and quickly read the contents.

The king wanted to see him. Tomorrow.

He'd been back in Paris for a week, had requested an audience every day since and had been denied. He'd informed the king of the massacre through a letter sent ahead of them when they left Savoy. He had expected an immediate audience to discuss the tragedy and its cause.

Instead, he'd been met with a wall of silence.

Until now.

The fact that Aramis, the lone returning survivor, was due back today was not lost on Treville.

He did not believe in coincidence.

The knot of anxiety that had tightened in his stomach the moment he'd learned of the massacre, tightened further. There was something more at work here. Perhaps tomorrow he would finally find out  _what._

* * *

Porthos sighed wearily as the Garrison's gate came into sight, relieved to finally be home.

He cast a glance at the man riding beside him, noting the lines of weariness and pain in his face. Though Aramis hadn't admitted to it, Porthos was certain his head was paining him again. He kept his hat pulled low over his eyes to block the sun and he always seemed to be squinting. He'd lost his lunch only an hour after eating it and had tapered off in his constant chatter.

Porthos had offered to stop for a rest but Aramis had been adamant about continuing.

He wanted to be home and Porthos couldn't blame him.

It had been a very long week.

Aramis had not ceased in his charade in all the days it had taken to travel home. He was still behaving as if  _nothing_  had happened. He'd not once mentioned the fallen Musketeers or Marsac. He'd slept fitfully, often woken by pain he wouldn't admit to or horrible dreams that left him with a scream or shouted word on his lips. But even sitting there in the dark of the night, shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, he'd painted on a smile and insisted all was well. It was just a dream, he would say. Sometimes he would go even further and claim not to even remember what horrors had haunted him.

He'd eaten when it was time to eat. He'd talked endlessly about the various women with which he'd cavorted over the years. He practically took Porthos on a spoken tour through the taverns of Paris.

He laughed. He joked. He smiled.

It had become somewhat disturbing.

No man who'd been through the ordeal Aramis had just survived should be so happy.

But Porthos had resolved to hold his tongue on the matter, especially with the memory of Savoy so close at their backs. So he had laughed, joked, and smiled in return, allowing Aramis to maintain the charade for now. If it was what the other man needed to get him from day to day, who was he to deny him? It was temporary, he was sure; a crutch to get them home.

But they were here now and Aramis would soon be in the company of the captain.

Treville, Porthos was certain, would sort it all out.

Porthos followed Aramis through the Garrison gate and opened his mouth to tell Aramis to wait for his help to dismount. But Aramis was already carelessly throwing his leg over the horse's head and sliding to the ground, taking care to land on his uninjured leg. He made it look quite effortless, though Porthos knew the bravado had to have cost him. Getting him in and out of the saddle had been somewhat of a challenge throughout their entire journey, especially at the end of a long day of riding.

But with the remaining members of the regiment looking on from various places throughout the Garrison, Aramis, it seemed, was unwilling to show any sort of weakness.

Porthos shook his head and dismounted, handing off his horse to the stable boy.

Aramis was already being greeted by Treville with a firm hug.

"You look much better than when I last saw you," Treville smiled as he looked Aramis over, a hand lingering on the marksman's shoulder.

Despite his knowledge that Aramis was still healing, Porthos had to admit Treville was right. In the two weeks since his rescue, Aramis' hair was already growing quickly. Porthos suspected the marksman was making it happen through sheer force of will. The scars on his temple and the base of his skull were still visible, but the promise of being one day hidden was there. He was still a few shades pale, but seemed to grow stronger every day.

"Fine and fit, Captain," Aramis assured with a wide smile. Then, at Treville's doubtful look, he added with a wry grin, "In a manner, at least."

His attention was then caught by Serge, who came limping out of the refectory to greet them.

"Serge! Good to see you my old friend. Tell me what you've planned for dinner!"

Porthos moved to stand with Treville as they watched Aramis accept Serge's hug and then limp alongside the old veteran into the refectory.

"Has he been like that the whole time?" Treville asked quietly.

Porthos nodded, not even needing to wonder what Treville was talking about.

"Since we left Savoy. All smiling and cheerful. It's unnatural."

Treville nodded slowly, but offered no words of wisdom on the matter. Instead, he just moved back towards his office, though it seemed his eyes never left the refectory entrance.

Porthos stared after him, then at the refectory, then back at where Treville was disappearing into his office. He tossed up his hands wearily and headed to the refectory. He was hungry after all, and if it gave him an excuse to keep an eye on Aramis, all the better.

* * *

Aramis moved carefully into the stable, whistling lowly to get her attention.

There was a moment of quiet, then a familiar brown head shot out of a stall like lightning.

" _Hola, mi caballita bella," (Hello, my beautiful little horse,)_ he greeted warmly. He moved as quickly as his healing leg would allow down the row of stalls to greet Esmé as she stretched to reach him.

He met her seeking nose with his palm and immediately stepped close, letting her press her snout into his chest.

" _He oído que estabas preocupada por mí." (I hear you were worried about me.)_

She nickered softly and hooked her head over his shoulder, pulling him closer and nuzzling her jaw against his ear. He laughed warmly.

" _Yo también te extrañé." (I missed you, too.)_

He chuckled again, feeling a contradictory wetness pool in his eyes when she pulled back only to nuzzle his chest more firmly. Then she lifted her head, lightly brushing her nose against his temple. The snort that followed as she pulled back sounded distinctly worried.

" _Lo sé,"_   _(I know,)_  he murmured.  _"Pero estoy bien, Esmé."_   _(But I'm all right, Esmé.)_

She shifted, tilting her head in such a way that he felt as if he were being called a liar.

His chest tightened and a frustrating pressure built behind his eyes that had nothing to do with his persistent headache.

" _Yo soy," (I am,)_ he insisted, fighting down a burn in his eyes and nose.

She shook her head sharply, making an unhappy sound. She knew him too well.

She could sense the lie he was telling himself, the lie he was telling  _everyone_. He wasn't all right. He wasn't  _fine_. Physically, he was healing. But he couldn't close his eyes without being back there. He couldn't sleep without waking up amongst frozen bodies. He couldn't relax because his mind couldn't  _stop_. Instincts honed to excellence through his years as a soldier now worked against him, forcing him to be aware of every shift in the world around him. It was exhausting and nerve-fraying.

And then there was Marsac.

His memories of the attack and ensuing fight were fractured and scattered. He'd fought the leader and wounded him, that much he remembered. He was fairly certain that had been when his leg was injured. But beyond that, there were only flashes of memory and an echo of pain.

But he remembered Marsac.

He remembered seeing the guilt and devastation on his face as he sat amidst the bodies of their fallen brothers.

" _I failed them_ ," he'd said.

And he remembered Marsac walking away.

_Don't leave me here._

He could feel his own words on his lips even now, could hear himself shouting them, whispering them, begging his brother not to abandon him.

_Don't leave me here._

But Marsac had. He had left him to die.

That betrayal had cast into darkness everything Aramis thought he'd believed in. Everything he thought he knew about brotherhood was torn to shreds.

How could he ever trust in such a thing again after that?

Another face flashed through his mind. A face with dark skin and a wide, toothy smile. Eyes, as brown as Aramis' own, full of warmth and compassion. A loud, boisterous laugh echoed through his mind, and for a moment Aramis thought he could feel the pressure of a strong, comforting hand tightening around the base of his neck.

 _Porthos_.

Porthos, who had been his only constant. Porthos, who didn't miss a step when Aramis' mood swung drunkenly between irrational anger and pathetic melancholy. Porthos, who didn't retreat when Aramis found himself spitting scathing words. Porthos, who had been there every time he woke screaming with a calming hand and a soothing word.

" _Easy,"_  he'd say.  _"I'm here."_

Aramis wished he could trust it. He wished that Marsac's betrayal hadn't made him realize that such promises of brotherhood were fleeting things, left to the whims of the promissor. They weren't to be relied on and he would never make that mistake again.

Esmé dipped her head, nudging him until he let his own forehead fall to rest against hers.

He closed his eyes and saw blood and steel.

His hands, tangled up into her mane, tightened, but she didn't pull away. As the moments passed, if Aramis ended up clinging to her all the tighter, she never uttered protest.

This was how Treville found them several minutes later.

Aramis sensed the captain's approach long before Treville actually appeared in the doorway to the stable. But he was too tired to bother lifting his head. If Treville wondered about it, Aramis would play it off as comforting Esmé.

He heard Treville coming closer, but the captain didn't speak until he was standing right next to him. A twitch of Esmé's muscles told Aramis that the man was stroking her neck.

"Porthos is looking for you," the captain told him eventually.

Aramis forced his eyes open and straightened.

"It's not as if I'm hiding," he replied with a weary grin. He cut his gaze over to Treville but the captain was looking fixedly at Esmé.

"Should I send him here?" Treville asked.

"No need to make it easy for him."

"But I thought you  _weren't_  hiding," the captain arched a skeptical eyebrow.

Aramis forced himself to smirk and was rewarded with a fleeting glance his way.

"Why waste a chance at a good game of hide-and-seek?"

Treville seemed to barely resist the urge to roll his eyes and instead gave him an obvious look over. But still, when his gaze met Aramis' it was so brief it may as well have not happened at all.

"How are you?"

Aramis didn't let himself react to the bluntness of the question and refused to be put off balance by the lack of eye contact. Instead he let his smirk grow into a grin.

"Haven't we had this conversation?" he teased. "Forgotten already, have you? It's the age, isn't it?"

"Aramis." Treville's tone suggested he wasn't in the mood for such humor. Still though, such a scolding was usually paired with a firm glare. Instead, the captain kept his gaze fixed on Esmé.

"Fine and fit, Captain," he answered cheerfully.

Finally, the captain looked at him;  _really_  looked at him. They'd known each other so long, Aramis was certain Treville would read the truth of it all in his eyes. He was sure Treville wouldn't let such a bold lie pass.

He watched Treville study him and saw the exact moment the captain decided to let him have the charade.

"Glad to hear it." Treville gave him a smile and gripped his shoulder firmly, eyes cutting away again.

It was what Aramis wanted. He wanted everyone to leave him be, to let him cope in his own way. He didn't want to be coddled and hovered over. He  _wanted_  everyone to believe the lie he was proclaiming.

So he didn't know why he was so disappointed when Treville let it pass without protest.

"I've some work to attend to," Treville stated gruffly, shifting away.

"Of course," Aramis allowed, tone no longer bright but instead hinting at something bitter. "Don't let me keep you."

Treville glanced at him, a fleeting meeting of gazes before the captain was looking away again and heading back the way he'd come.

Aramis stared after him, hardly noticing when Esmé nudged at his chest.

Had it all been lies? Had Marsac's betrayal been only the beginning?

He had accepted, from the moment he'd decided to wear the mask of nonchalance and humor, that Treville would strip it from him the moment he returned. He had expected the captain to see through the charade as easily as he had seen through it so many times in the past.

He had never even dreamed that Treville would just let it pass.

He remembered, then, the captain being unable to meet his eyes.

Understanding crashed over him suddenly, leaving him feeling raw and beaten in its wake.

Perhaps Treville couldn't bear the sight of him.

And why should he? Aramis had failed him.

He had barely let himself think about what had happened. He saw it enough, relived it enough, without actively reflecting on it. He hadn't considered the part  _he_  had played in the tragedy that left twenty dead and one a deserter.

But now, following Treville's obvious disappointment, he recognized the truth of it.

It had been  _his_  training exercise. He had been responsible for those men.

He had failed them.

And he had failed Treville.

That realization left him gutted. There had only ever been two people in his life who he truly sought to please. His mother had been one. Despite the wildness of his youth, he had always wanted nothing more than to make her proud. His love for her had been that fierce. Years after being torn from her, he had met Treville and found another. He had found, in the captain, the father Julien d'Herblay did not have the heart or desire to be.

Now he saw how unworthy he was of such a position.

He had proven a disappointment to both his fathers in the end. His mortal ones at least.

His hand drifted to his chest, seeking out the cross he usually wore around his neck. He realized belatedly that it wasn't there – just as it hadn't been there any of the times he'd reached for it during the past two weeks since waking in that inn.

It had been lost in Savoy, just as so many other things had been.

A sharp nudge at his shoulder nearly had him stumbling and he returned his attention to Esmé.

" _Todavía me quieres, ¿verdad?" (You still love me, don't you?)_  he asked her with a sigh.

She answered with a soft knicker and a gentle brush of her nose against his cheek.

He smiled, despite himself.

With one last grazing of his knuckles along her jaw, Aramis walked away.

He paused at the door and looked back, unsurprised to see her staring after him.

" _Come tu cena,"_   _(Eat your dinner,)_  he instructed with a grin.

She snorted and retreated back into her stall.

Some things, at least, never changed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Seven
> 
> Esme is probably my favorite original character ever, lol. I love her. I'm actually working on a Whumptober prompt (yes I know its practically January) where she's written into the Modern AU i've been playing with there in a new way ;) We'll get a bit of a peek inside Treville's head next chapter as we start circling towards the tangible shift in his relationship with Aramis that has taken hold by the time we get to the show.
> 
> I love hearing from you guys so please, let me know what you think!
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "There are things at work, Treville, beyond that which you are aware. Things of utmost secrecy and importance," the king told him.
> 
> Treville closed his eyes against the gutting pain the confession, vague as it was, caused. He had known, from the moment word of the massacre had reached him, that he had played a part. He had known his dispatch to Savoy, revealing where Aramis would make camp, had doomed his men. He had thought it a betrayal by Savoy.
> 
> But it hadn't been.
> 
> The betrayal had been so much closer. It had come from the very heart of France.


	8. You're the Blood of My Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Seven: Thimblerig, shanachie, issa, Mademoisellesnowflake, Lady_Neve, Daisy_Chain, and Scarlett77
> 
> Happy New Year! :D Posting a bit early tonight because I've got some work stuff to do! Enjoy!

 

 

_Brotherhood can't be defined…only experienced.  
_ _**Unknown** _

* * *

_April 19, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Garrison_

* * *

Porthos was leaning on the door of the armory when he saw Aramis finally come out of the stable.

The marksman had been quiet at dinner and Porthos was worried his headache was worsening. Too many times over the last weeks he'd seen firsthand how quickly the worst of those headaches could bring Aramis to his knees. There had been one time that Aramis had sworn it felt as if his head was being bashed in all over again.

So when he had disappeared from the refectory while Porthos was asking Demonte about where the dead had been buried, Porthos had grown immediately concerned.

Treville had caught him looking around the yard, a bit frantically if he was honest, and Porthos had confessed his worry.

Treville had suggested he search the armory and had, himself, headed for the stable.

Porthos wasn't a fool. He lingered in the armory until he saw Treville come back out of the stables and then watched the door until Aramis appeared a few minutes later.

Aramis seemed steady enough as he climbed the stairs to the second floor barracks. Porthos watched him hesitate at the door to his quarters and then push his way inside. Porthos gave him a moment and then followed.

After two weeks of looking after the man, he couldn't fight the urge to check on him.

He was a bit surprised to see the door standing ajar when he reached Aramis' quarters. After a moment of hesitation, he decided that could be taken as an invitation.

He nudged it open and leaned against the frame.

Aramis was stone still in the center of the room, facing one of the beds. It was as if he'd walked in and frozen where he stood.

"I wondered where you'd gone off to," Porthos greeted carefully.

For a moment, Aramis didn't seem to have heard him. But then he drew in a breath, as if coming back to life.

"I went to see Esmé," he replied simply.

Porthos nodded even though Aramis wasn't looking at him. That was information he already had. For several moments he watched Aramis continue to stare at the bed. It took longer than it should have for him to realize why the marksman had fixated on it, something he blamed on his own exhaustion.

Aramis had shared this room with another Musketeer. That had been Marsac's bed.

"Do you want to stay in my room?" Porthos asked carefully. Such an offer would either get reluctant acceptance or angry refusal – it was impossible to predict which given the turbulent nature of Aramis' moods lately.

Aramis finally moved, turning to glare darkly at Porthos through the dimness of the room.

"No," came the blunt refusal. "I can stomach sleeping in this room, Porthos. I'm not so tragically broken as you seem to think."

Anger then.

"I didn't mean anythin' by it," Porthos said, putting up a hand in defense. "Just offerin'. Do you need anythin'?"

The offer seemed to just incense him further.

"Are you my keeper, Porthos?"

The words were spoken in a low and chilling tone. Whatever attempts he'd been making to pretend all was well had apparently been abandoned for the moment. Porthos couldn't decide if he was relieved Aramis wasn't pretending anymore or worried that perhaps he wasn't  _able_  to pretend anymore. He had a horrible feeling that it was the second, that being in this room –  _Marsac's_ room – had triggered something in the marksman.

"No," Porthos answered carefully. "Not your keeper. Just your brother."

Something in Aramis' gaze darkened dangerously.

"You and I," Aramis gestured between them, "are not brothers."

He advanced on Porthos, coming to stand toe-to-toe with him. Porthos fought not to rise to his full height, instead forcing himself to stay relaxed and non-threatening where he leaned in the doorway.

"You got me back to Paris. You can stop pretending now."

Porthos blinked.

"What?"

"No one is watching, Porthos!" Aramis hissed. "Am I'm not fooled. Just  _go_  and leave me alone."

Porthos stared at him, completely confused.

 _Pretending? Fooled?_  What was Aramis talking about?

"No one is pretending, Aramis," Porthos replied cautiously but firmly. No one but Aramis, at least, though even he wasn't bothering with his charade right now. "I'm not trying to fool you."

"Stop," Aramis snapped, his fingers shifting to press against his temple, just above the healing scar. "Just  _stop_."

Aramis drew in a deep breath and seemed to mentally rally himself. His hand dropped back down and reached instead to push Porthos back out onto the balcony. Unwilling to force his presence on the smaller man, Porthos allowed it.

Aramis stood there in the doorway for a long, silent moment. He stared at Porthos with dark, haunted eyes, but didn't speak. He looked confused, as if  _Porthos_  was confusing him.

"We  _are_  brothers, Aramis," Porthos insisted quietly. "It was  _you_ who said so,  _you_  who made me believe it."

For a brief moment, Aramis looked like he was about to collapse into tears.

"That was before," he said instead, voice shaking.

Porthos risked a step closer, dipping his head a bit to catch Aramis' lowered gaze.

"Before what?"

Aramis lifted his chin, sudden resolve hardening his features.

"Before I learned the  _truth_  about brotherhood."

Then Porthos found himself staring at a closed door. Every part of him wanted to kick it down, to march into the room and wrap Aramis in the tightest hug he could, to  _make_  him trust the bond between them.

But he didn't.

He knew of Marsac's betrayal, or guessed at it at least. There was only one conclusion to be drawn when the man was missing and his pauldron was left behind. Aramis' fevered pleas had only made the picture clearer.

 _Don't leave me here_.

Porthos felt his hands clench to fists.

He hadn't considered what that betrayal would mean to Aramis. He hadn't imagined it would shake his faith in Porthos, his faith in all of them. They had not been friends long, but their bond had been solid and true. Marsac's betrayal had poisoned everything.

Porthos had never hated Marsac more than he did in this moment.

And though Porthos was now more determined than ever to remain at Aramis' side, to  _prove_  himself a true and loyal brother, he would never forgive Marsac for what he had done.

Never.

* * *

Aramis pressed his forehead against the door, squeezing his eyes closed in an attempt to ward off the headache that had been brewing all day.

Porthos' confusion  _confused him_.

He'd been sure, when called out, Porthos would give up the pretense. But instead, the man had looked nothing short of bewildered.

It didn't make sense.

Why carry on with the illusion now that he knew Aramis had discovered it?

He was still there, on the other side of the door; Aramis could sense it. Part of him wanted to fling the door open and ignore all of his misgivings. He wanted to accept the friendship, the  _brotherhood_ , Porthos was offering and pretend it was real.

He had never questioned his brotherhood with Marsac. He had believed, from the very beginning, that Marsac held him as closely in his heart as Aramis did  _him_. Marsac had not been the perfect friend. He had his vices, as all men do. Pride and an easily sparked temper; those had been Marsac's failings. But Aramis had stood by him. He had talked him down when his temper flared. He had fought beside him when talking failed and Marsac's foolish mouth escalated arguments into brawls. He had always had Marsac's back and had always believed that devotion would be fully returned.

He had been a fool.

But he would not be taken in so easily again.

With a weary sigh he pushed away from the door and decided to ignore that Porthos  _still_  stood on the other side.

Instead, he moved slowly to his bed, methodically removing his garments until he wore nothing but his underclothes. Then he moved to stand in front of the old mirror on the wall. It was a vain indulgence that Marsac had teased him mercilessly for. But Aramis had found that trimming his beard with the aid of the reflective glass had significantly improved the precision of his shaving.

Now, though, he stood farther back, tracing his fingers over the healing scar on his side. The wound had been shallow, and the scar would likely fade to nothing with time. It barely even ached anymore and he tended to forget it was even there.

He stepped closer, stooping slightly to see his face in the glass. He rubbed a hand over his head, fingers brushing through the short, prickly mess. His hair would grow in time, that was not his worry. Even now it covered half the width of his fingers as he pushed his hand through it. His eyes instead were drawn to the ugly scar on the side of his head.

This one, he knew, would never fade. It would be hidden beneath his hair as it grew, but it would always be there.  _He_  would always know it was there. Every time he looked in the mirror, no matter how his hair hid it, he would see it. He would see and be reminded.

Of Savoy.

Of twenty dead Musketeers.

Of Marsac.

He hooked his hand over the top of the mirror and yanked it from the wall, turning to walk away even as it fell, shattering on the floor. The sound sent spikes of agony through his throbbing head, but he ignored the pain.

There was a shuffling step out on the walkway beyond the door. But no knock came, no voice called out to him. It was a relief, really…and a disappointment.

He moved next to the hearth, positioned equally between the two beds. He spent the next several minutes building a fire, stoking it with wood until it was roaring.

Even so, he shivered.

He was always cold. No matter what he did, he could never seem to warm.

He returned to his bed and carefully ripped away a strip from his bedsheet, easing himself down onto the mattress and staring at the cloth in his hands.

The dreams had been unrelenting. There'd been nothing he could do on the journey to the Garrison but endure them. Porthos, he knew, had grown to anticipate them as much as Aramis did. Every time Aramis ripped himself from the nightmare and clawed his way back to reality, the larger man had been there, already awake and waiting to calm him, to quiet the screams and shouts.

Aramis hated to admit he'd grown to count on it.

But he couldn't very well beg Porthos to stay by his side. Not when the man didn't even  _really_  want to be bothered with him anyway. Not when Porthos' devotion was born of guilt and nothing more.

Left to himself, Aramis didn't know how loud the screams would be or how long they would last. So there was really only one solution if he wanted to save himself the humiliation of waking the entire Garrison with the sounds of his nightmares.

He fitted the cloth between his teeth, tying it behind his head.

The gag would not stop all sound, but it would do well enough. The walls weren't overly thick, but they were made of solid wood. Between the two, he stood a chance at keeping his horrors to himself until he found reality on his own, without Porthos to guide him.

Without another thought about it, he retrieved his dagger from his weapons belt and slid it under his pillow. Then he shifted himself down across the bed and pressed his back to the wall. The position forced him to stare at Marsac's empty bed, but the alternative of leaving his back exposed was far worse. Even with the solid security of the wall at his back, he still found his hand reaching under his pillow to wrap tightly around the hilt of his dagger.

Porthos was still there, still silent outside the door.

But Aramis ignored it.

Marsac's bed sat empty across from him, mocking him with the memories of the years they'd spent sharing this room.

Aramis closed his eyes.

He welcomed the blood and steel that greeted him.

* * *

Treville stood at the window to his office, staring across the yard to the second level barracks.

Porthos sat alone outside the door to Aramis' room. He'd been standing for a long time, at one point making a move to open the door, looking alarmed, but had never actually gone further than putting his hand on the door handle. After that, he'd slid to the wooden deck, leaning back against the door and burying his head in his hands.

The sight of such devotion was comforting, especially in the face of his own spectacular failure in facing Aramis himself.

He had known it would be hard. He had anticipated his own guilt would be crippling.

He had  _not_  expected Aramis to pretend everything was fine.

He should have, though; he realized that now. Aramis was a master of masks, after all. Treville knew that even  _he_  had never truly seen Aramis in his entirety. He had never actually seen all the parts that came together to make the man he knew. Aramis had always worn a mask of sorts, even with him.

He led the world by the hand with his persona. He only ever let people see what he  _wanted_  them to see. Some would swear Aramis was the kindest, gentlest person they had ever met. Others would claim just as fiercely that he was a ruthless warrior who would kill without hesitation. Others still would insist he was loud and gregarious, quick to laugh and quicker to draw out laughter in others. Further, some would say he was a cunning, fast talking con man likely to get himself killed for his silver tongue one day.

Treville had been privileged enough to know all of these sides of him at one time or another. He knew, as few did, that they were all the same man – parts to make a whole.

Aramis always wore masks. It was who he was.

But the mask he wore with Treville had always been a simple thing. It had only ever hidden one part of himself – his past. A history kept closely guarded and never to be disclosed, not even to him. But not since Medina had Aramis truly tried to fool Treville with the persona he showed the rest of the world.

Treville had been ready for heartbreak and devastation. He had barely been able to look at the young man for the anticipation of it. He still carried the weight of the truth that must be shared between them. He had dreaded seeing the suffering in Aramis' eyes and had hated that he would only add to it.

But then, Aramis had looked at him and smiled. He had kept the mask in place and dared Treville to question it.

And to Treville's shame, he had been relieved.

He had grasped at the excuse to hold onto his confession a while longer. He had looked away from the false smile and the poorly hidden suffering in Aramis' gaze and told himself to keep his truth just a little longer.

It was selfish, he knew. Aramis would not blame him, would never hate him for what he'd done. But he would never look at him the same again either. Once he knew the truth, Treville would forever be a reminder of twenty dead, a reminder of a captain's failure to protect his men.

As selfish as it was, he wanted to preserve the image Aramis had of him for as long as he could.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow after he'd met with the king and put straight what had happened, he would tell Aramis everything. He would explain the whole awful truth of his letter to the duke revealing their position and of the duke's subsequent betrayal.

Then, together, they would prepare for the war with Savoy that would likely follow. It wouldn't matter now that the king's sister was the Duchess. The massacre had been an open act of aggression. Such a thing would merit swift and decisive retaliation.

Treville would be ready to deliver that justice with Aramis by his side.

* * *

Aramis woke to screams.

It was only when the cloth between his teeth had him choking on the sound that he realized the screams were not just in his dreams.

He tried to breath around the gag. But found that in his state of panic, the task was made too difficult.

He clawed at the cloth until he was able to pull it free, leaving it to hang loosely around his neck. Finally, able to draw in sufficient air to clear his muddled thoughts, he closed his eyes and focused just on breathing.

It took him longer than it strictly should have to calm himself. And it was then that he realized he was shaking. Not just a minor tremble, either. His entire body was violently shivering against the cold he could feel settled deep in his bones.

With a trembling hand, he pushed aside his sheet and blanket, climbing gingerly out of bed to stoke the fading fire. Once he had it raging brightly once again, he just stood before it, trying to let it warm his shaking body. But even with the heat of the flames bringing a flush to his skin, he still felt cold.

He rubbed at his arms as he moved back to his bed. He huddled beneath his blankets and tried to stop himself from trembling.

Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on the warmth he knew the fire would be spreading into the room. He tried to draw that warmth into his bones.

But still the cold remained.

With a resigned sigh, he climbed back out of bed. Tucking his pillow under his arm and retrieving his dagger, he shifted to lay down on the floor before the hearth. He tugged his blankets down on top of him and stretched out on his back. Resting the dagger across his chest, he breathed out a sigh.

It wasn't the most defensible position, but he could still see the door and the window and at least he was starting to feel somewhat warm again.

Eventually, he felt the shaking start to fade.

But in its absence, the silence of the world around him became impossible to ignore.

The first thing he heard were the echoes of clashing steel. The sound was quiet at first, but steadily grew louder. Then explosions of gunfire seemed to shake the walls. Soon the screams of the dead and dying mingled with the sounds of battle.

He clenched his eyes, searching the room for  _anything_  to distract him from the memories.

But there was nothing.

He was alone with them, just as he had been alone in Savoy.

* * *

Porthos rubbed at his sore neck, sitting forward away from the door he'd been sleeping against. He didn't know what exactly had woken him – or consequently when exactly he had fallen asleep in the first place – so he went still, listening.

He heard it then, gasping breaths.

Shifting up to his knees, Porthos rested his hand flat against the door and leaned closer.

He could just hear the sound of Aramis adding wood to the fire.

There were slight sounds of movement, then silence. Then, too soon, movement again. That, too, settled eventually and silence followed.

Porthos chewed his lip and pushed up to stand.

Aramis had kicked him out earlier, bluntly and clearly.

But some instinct was urging Porthos into the room. Some whisper in his mind was telling him that no matter what he claimed, Aramis shouldn't be alone. A tightening in his gut told him his brother needed him.

Closing his eyes and taking in a fortifying breath, Porthos eased the door open.

The room was cast in an orange glow from the roaring fire and the heat of it made the air stiflingly hot. Porthos immediately missed the coolness of the night outside, but he did not turn back.

Aramis was laid out before the fire – as close as he could get without laying in the flames – with a dagger clenched in the hand that lay across his chest. His eyes were closed but his breathing was unsteady.

Still not sure of his welcome, Porthos closed the door and leaned against it. He didn't know what he would do if Aramis told him to leave. He was needed here. He could feel it. But forcing the issue could end up only furthering the distance that Aramis was placing between them.

So he waited to see what Aramis would do.

"Porthos."

It was a simple acknowledgment, spoken in barely a whisper. But the tone of it was not simple at all. Porthos could hear, wrapped in every piece of his own name, how much Aramis wanted –  _needed_  – him to stay. But at the same time it was laced with bone-deep frustration. Frustration, perhaps, that Porthos had come or, maybe, that Aramis needed him to at all.

Porthos slid down to sit against the door, mirroring the position he'd claimed outside.

"I'm here," he assured quietly.

Through the silence of the room, he thought he might have heard Aramis sigh in something like relief.

* * *

_April 20, 1625  
_ _The Road to the Louvre Palace, Paris_

* * *

Treville rode out of the Garrison just as the men started to stir from their beds and come out in search of breakfast. He'd barely been able to sleep, his mind troubled by both his worry for Aramis and his anticipation of his audience with the king.

Porthos hadn't been out on the landing this morning when Treville finally gave up on sleep an hour before dawn. He hoped that meant the young man was getting some rest. The exhaustion had been rolling off him in waves from the moment he and Aramis returned yesterday. In all honesty he'd looked only a little better than Aramis himself. If the man showed for morning muster, Treville would send him straight back to bed. Aramis, he knew, would be pulled aside by Henri, the Garrison physician, as soon as he appeared to ascertain when he would be fit to return to duty. The outcome of that meeting would determine if Aramis, too, would be sent straight back to bed.

When the Louvre palace gate came into sight, Treville forced himself to focus on the coming conversation and to put Aramis, for now, out of his mind.

Soon enough he was handing off his horse and being escorted to the king's council chamber. Treville was unsurprised to see Richelieu standing at the king's shoulder.

For several heavy moments they all just stared at each other.

Louis looked somewhat troubled.

Richelieu, however, looked as impassive as ever.

"I offer my deepest condolences, Captain, on the loss of your men," Louis finally spoke.

Treville lifted his chin slightly and squared his shoulders.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Louis gave him a slight nod, his eyes flashing with something like regret.

"A great loss for France," he added, glancing to the cardinal and then returning his gaze quickly back to Treville.

Treville felt his heart start pounding in his chest at the telling gesture.

Louis was still young, despite his already long tenure on the throne, and he had not yet quite mastered hiding his thoughts from those who knew him best. Treville had served him since he took the throne as a child king and had served his father before that. He knew Louis well, well enough to know when he was hiding something.

"Such a tragedy," Richelieu put solemnly, but there was no real sympathy in his gaze. He looked, instead, as if this outcome was no shock at all.

As if he had known, all along, this would happen.

A vision of blood-stained snow and a forest of frozen bodies rose, unbidden, in Treville's mind. A memory of Aramis, cradled carefully in Porthos' arms, followed swiftly after.

 _Aramis_.

The boy had been something like a son to him over these last six years. Aramis had been so very young when they had met. He had been full of fierce fire and passion and  _courage._ Captain Barteaux had used that to his own ends, risking the young soldier's life recklessly. But Treville had seen Aramis' heart clearly the moment they met and he'd known, just as quickly, that the young marksman was meant for something more. Falling into the role of mentor had been an easy thing after that.

When the order had come to create the Musketeers, Aramis had been the fifth and final addition to the new regiment. He had been the youngest of them by nearly two decades, but his youth hadn't mattered. He had been loved by all of them, taught by each seasoned soldier in different ways as they poured lifetimes of wisdom and training into him. From one moment to the next, even now, Treville could see each of his original Musketeers in Aramis. He could see the training they had passed down, the wisdom they had shared.

From the beginning, he had been meant to be their future.

Then, somewhere along the way, Treville had stopped being just his mentor and had become something more instead. Aramis had stopped being simply the future of the Musketeers, the man destined to lead them. He had become Treville's legacy instead – the son he would never truly have.

He stared at Richelieu's impassive, unaffected gaze and found himself speaking.

"You knew this would happen."

Both Louis and Richelieu stared at him in surprise, perhaps shocked by his audacity. But the realization had come too swiftly, had struck him too deeply, for him to have a chance to rein his tongue.

"You forget yourself, Captain," Richelieu scolded firmly. "You would accuse your king?"

Treville shot a glance at Louis, knowing that to do so could, and likely would, have grave consequences. But the fleeting look of guilt Louis slid to Richelieu told Treville the truth of it.

"Your Majesty," he spoke calmly, careful to keep his voice respectful and reverent. Louis' gaze met his, eyes wide and expressive in response to his sincerity. "I have served you, and your father before you, with pride for most of my life. I am, and shall always be, your faithful servant. You commanded me to inform the duke of where my men made camp and I obeyed this command. My King, I beg you now for the truth. For the sake of the twenty men who died, I must know if I condemned them to that fate."

Louis' gaze softened.

"There are things at work, Treville, beyond that which you are aware. Things of utmost secrecy and importance," the king told him.

Treville closed his eyes against the gutting pain the confession, vague as it was, caused. He had known, from the moment word of the massacre had reached him, that he had played a part. He had known his dispatch to Savoy, revealing where Aramis would make camp, had doomed his men. He had thought it a betrayal by Savoy.

But it hadn't been.

The betrayal had been so much closer. It had come from the very heart of France.

"It is for these things that those men died," Louis went on, forcing Treville to open his eyes and hear the rest. "Take comfort in the knowledge that they died in service of a greater purpose."

A greater purpose.

Such was the fate of every soldier – to die for a cause.

But there was a difference between marching to battle willingly for King and Country and being murdered in the shadows, cut down by a game of lies and deceit you didn't even know you were a player in.

He felt sick. His gut twisted and he had to look away just to maintain his composure.

"They were your soldiers," Treville found himself saying. He raised his gaze back to meet Louis'. "Your most trusted men…men who  _loved_  you. Twenty men who now lay beneath the ground."

His voice was too sharp, too accusatory. Louis would have every right to tear him down for such brazenness, but Treville could not hold his tongue. For the sake of his men, he could not let this pass quietly.

Louis' gaze hardened with something. Perhaps guilt, perhaps just defensive superiority.

"I will forgive you your insolence, Captain, in deference to the grief you must feel at this tragedy."

Treville clamped his mouth closed against the words he wanted to say. It was a warning he did not deserve. He spoke instead with his eyes, letting Louis see in his gaze the depth of his grief and confusion. He watched the king slowly soften under the weight of that knowledge.

"We received word that my sister's duplicity had been discovered by Cluzet, the duke's chancellor, who incidentally is a Spanish spy," Louis explained quietly. Treville took in this new information with a blink. "We had to act quickly to ensure this never reached the duke's ears." Louis held Treville's gaze, eyes pleading for understanding. "Sacrifices had to be made. The only way for the cardinal's men to extract Cluzet quietly was for the duke to be drawn out and distracted. As a military man, you  _must_  understand the need for such measures." He finished in a rush, his tone bordering on frantic.

Treville glanced at Richelieu and then back at Louis.

"My men were the distraction," he realized quietly.

"The duke heard a rumor that men had been sent to assassinate him," the cardinal revealed. "And further that they intended to place his infant son on the throne."

Treville felt sick all over again. His men, his faithful soldiers, had been painted as assassins. The dishonor that laid on their memories was nearly enough to gut him right then and there.

"When he received word of their location, he did exactly as we needed him to. He acted."

"A rumor." Treville stared hard at Richelieu. " _Your_  rumor."

The cardinal's chin lifted slightly and it was all the confirmation Treville needed.

His men had been pawns in a larger game. He himself had been little more.

"It was necessary, Treville," Louis pleaded. "You  _must_  see that. For the sake of France, it had to be done."

Treville stared at him but refused to condone this horrible choice. He refused to offer approval for a decision that had cost twenty innocent lives. He saw Louis' eyes well with moisture at his silence, but just as quickly, the king clenched his jaw and lifted his chin in defiance.

He was King. He did not need approval from a man like Treville. Such things had been whispered to him many times through the years, every time Treville refused to lie to spare Louis' feelings. He would always tell the king the truth, even if Louis refused to hear it.

Richelieu's cool voice broke the silence that had fallen.

"There is the matter of the two survivors, Your Majesty."

Louis composed himself further and cleared his throat.

"Yes, Treville, twenty- _two_  men were sent to Savoy. You said there were only twenty dead." The king looked at him expectantly.

Silently incensed by the cavalier tone with which Louis spoke of his murdered men, Treville hesitated a moment before replying. He held his tongue until he was sure his voice would be level.

"One, the Musketeer Marsac, is missing," he finally revealed.

"A deserter," Richelieu sneered.

Treville thought of the uniform that sat in his office and remembered Aramis' fevered pleas.

_Don't leave me here._

He could not deny the accusation, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Is this true?" Louis asked.

"We found his uniform abandoned on the field of battle," Treville revealed quietly.

"And the other?" Richelieu pressed. "Aramis, I believe?"

Treville's gaze narrowed in suspicion. The cardinal had eyes everywhere. He supposed he should not be surprised the man knew the identity of the survivor of Savoy.

"Returned yesterday and is now recovering amidst his remaining brothers," he told them vaguely.

"His injuries?" Louis asked. It wasn't quite concern in his voice, rather something closer to curiosity.

"He was stabbed in the leg and cut on his side, though both seem to be healing quickly. He also suffered two severe blows to the head."

"So his memory of events is likely…" Richelieu seemed to search for the right word, "muddled."

Treville suddenly realized why he was here. This had nothing to do with condolences about his lost men. Louis' confession of this deadly intrigue had not been planned. He had not been here for that at all.

"You want to know if he can identify his attackers," he stated, once again finding his stomach turning. "You are worried he will shed light on what you've done."

Richelieu's eyebrow arched, but he didn't deny it.

"He's not spoken of it," Treville told them gruffly. And it was the truth. When asked, Porthos had quietly informed him that Aramis did claim to "remember" what had happened. However, the quality of those memories, the scope of them, was unknown because Aramis refused to speak of it.

"He must be thoroughly questioned," Richelieu decided.

Treville felt his heart pound when Louis nodded. He knew what Richelieu's kind of  _questioning_  looked like. The thought of Aramis…

"No," he refused sharply, drawing both their gazes to him.

He saw fury rise in Louis' eyes to match that which Treville felt burning in his heart. Refusing the king was unacceptable. It wasn't  _done_. To do so, and in such a tone, invited swift punishment. So Treville drew in a steadying breath and let it out carefully, forcing his voice to be level and reverent once again.

"Aramis joined your infantry when he was just sixteen," he explained. "It was with  _him_  at its core that the Musketeers were founded. He is loyal and devoted and would do anything for you." He had  _already_ done so much,  _given_  so much. "He deserves more than to be interrogated as if he were your enemy."

Louis was not a cold man; he never had been. Treville's plea must have struck a chord in him because his eyes softened.

"I understand your concern, Treville, and admire your loyalty to your man," he assured kindly. "But this situation is too precarious, too vital. I must be sure this Musketeer will not undo all that has been done. I would not have twenty of my finest men sacrificed in vain."

"He would not betray you." Treville knew that for a certainty. Aramis breathed and bled loyalty.

"And if he partakes too heavily in a tavern? Your Musketeers are not known for their humility," Richelieu argued. "If this man starts to boast of his miraculous survival? Rumors would spread in an instant. And  _this_  Musketeer, I'm told, is known for his verbosity."

Treville did his best to burn Richelieu to the ground with his glare.

"He's right, Treville," Louis agreed, but his tone was not triumphant.

"Then let me find out what he remembers," Treville suggested, hoping he did not sound as desperate as he felt. "He suffered a grievous head wound. Even if he knows something dangerous, I will be able to convince him otherwise."

"What would you tell him?" Louis asked, something that might have been like hope in his eyes. Louis, Treville realized, was in no hurry to condemn another Musketeer. This was good news; it meant Treville stood a chance at protecting Aramis from this.

"The Spanish," he decided, thinking quickly. "They've been raiding the border lands for years."

"Will he believe you?" Richelieu asked bluntly. Treville was relieved to see the deadly focus – which had been aimed at Aramis – had faded from the cardinal's gaze.

Treville thought of Aramis' clearly Spanish features, of the murmurings of Spanish he'd heard the marksman utter more than once. Treville didn't know much of Aramis' history, not beyond his military service and a few off hand comments here and there. But he knew there was Spanish blood in the young man's veins.

There was every chance, if Aramis remembered the wrong thing, that he would spot the lie before it even left Treville's mouth.

But Aramis trusted him completely. If Treville handled it correctly, Aramis would sooner doubt his own memory than Treville's words. It was manipulative. It was exploiting the trust Aramis had always so willingly given him. But if it meant keeping him safe, Treville would do it.

"He'll believe me," he replied firmly. "Leave him to me," he turned his gaze to Louis, "please."

Louis held his gaze for a long, heavy moment. And then he nodded.

It was only years of training, of being hardened by battle and war, that kept Treville's expression stoic. Beneath his calm exterior, he was wilting in relief. Aramis was safe.

"All records of this mission must be destroyed," Richelieu reminded. "No evidence must ever remain to shine the light of truth on this tragic incident and it must never be spoken of again."

Treville nodded, willing to allow that concession. He had achieved what mattered most. Of the twenty-two men he'd sent to die in Savoy, he'd managed, in the end, to save at least one.

But, he feared, that salvation would come at a cost.

* * *

Porthos woke to a cool breeze brushing across his face. He twitched his nose, catching the scent of the city. While not a particularly  _pleasant_  scent, it was a familiar one. With a deep inhale, Porthos opened his eyes.

The world was sideways.

He blinked and realized it was  _he_  who was sideways, not the room. With a low groan, he pushed his hand against the floor and levered himself up. He felt the hard wood of the door at his back and his right side was tingling from having been slept on all night.

With a surprised arch of his brow, he realized there was a pillow on the floor next to him. He had no memory of retrieving it, but he remembered his head being cushioned upon waking now.

There was only one explanation, really – someone else had put it there. As far as he knew, the room had only one other occupant.

Porthos searched the room for Aramis, rubbing away a crusty residue from the corners of his eyes.

The fire in the hearth was on its last log, clearly having been left to burn out. There were the shattered remains of a mirror on the floor nearby and Porthos suddenly remembered the sound of breaking glass that nearly had him breaking down the door last night. The only thing that had stopped him was the sound of Aramis moving freely after that.

His gaze shifted to the bed he knew belonged to Aramis.

The marksman was sitting with his back pressed to the corner of the wall. He was fully dressed, save for his hat, which sat on the bed next to him. His hands were moving through the practiced routine of cleaning his arquebus. His pistols lay at his side, both looking pristinely cleaned already. His sword belt was resting at the foot of the bed, a whetstone lying next to it.

Aramis had been busy.

"How long have you been up?" Porthos asked as he used the door behind him to lever himself to standing.

Aramis didn't look up from his work even though Porthos was reasonably certain he could complete the task blindfolded.

"Dawn," he replied quietly, then even softer, "or earlier."

Porthos watched him for a moment, but Aramis still didn't look at him.

"Breakfast?" he suggested, feeling his own stomach rumble.

Aramis started to nod but a slamming door and a sudden rush of steps out on the landing had him vaulting from the bed. Porthos jumped, more from Aramis' reaction than the sudden rush of sound outside. He held up a calming hand when he found himself staring down the barrels of two pistols.

"Easy," he soothed. "Don't appreciate loaded weapons in my face this early in the mornin'."

Aramis blinked at him and after only a moment of hesitation, lowered the pistols. He looked frustrated with himself, like the only reason he'd lowered the weapons was because Porthos had asked him to.

"You're in the Garrison," Porthos pointed out carefully. "You realize that?"

"I know," Aramis agreed. "But I…" he cut himself off, shaking his head.

"You what?" Porthos pressed, taking a step closer. He was pleased that, although Aramis shot him a vague glare, the other man didn't retreat.

Aramis placed both pistols on the bed and reached for his sword belt, apparently content to ignore the question.

"Aramis."

With a frustrated huff, Aramis tightened his belt.

"I can't make it  _stop._ "

Porthos stared at him, confused. Aramis clipped his pistols to his belt a bit more forcefully than required and scowled down at his powder satchel, realizing, apparently, that he'd forgotten to put that on first. Porthos watched him rip his pistols back off his belt and slam them down onto the bed irritably.

"Aramis."

The marksman stripped off his sword belt and hooked the strap to his powder satchel over his shoulder. He didn't speak as he tightened his belt back into place over it, or when he clipped his pistols onto his belt again.

"Aramis," Porthos tried again, softer, as the smaller man snatched his hat from the bed.

"I know where I am," he insisted, turning to glare at him. "I  _know_ and yet…" He gestured helplessly with his hat and then slid a hand up into his short hair. "Every sound, every shift in the shadows…" He shook his head as if trying to banish some thought or vision and fitted his hat over his hair.

Porthos nodded, well aware of Aramis' tendency now to be overly vigilant of his surroundings. He had hoped it would fade once they returned to the safety of the Garrison. He watched Aramis rest a hand on the stock of one of his pistols and take a deep breath. Porthos imagined he could see the steel stiffening Aramis' back and straightening his shoulders.

"You should go," Aramis said as he turned, a wide, nearly believable smile on his face. "After all this time, you returned home and slept on the floor. You must feel awful." The false smile brightened. "Go. I'll meet you at breakfast."

Then Aramis was ushering him towards the door.

"Aramis," Porthos shook his head in frustration. There had been a moment when Aramis hadn't been hiding behind his mask of false smiles. A moment already gone, lost before Porthos could grasp at it.

"What do you suppose Serge has made?" Aramis went on brightly. "Perhaps we'll be lucky and escape his porridge. Either way I'm sure I can get him to part with a bit of fruit, perhaps some cheese."

Aramis pulled the door open and urged Porthos through it. But Porthos planted his feet and held his ground.

"Aramis."

"What?" Aramis asked, blinking innocently.

Porthos hesitated. He'd told himself when Aramis started this, that it would end when they got home. He had assured himself that Treville would handle it. He just needed to give the captain more time.

"Nothin'," he shook his head. "See you down there."

He moved quickly down the walkway to his own room and slid inside while Aramis continued on to the stairs. But as Porthos closed his door on Aramis' retreating back he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd made the wrong choice.

* * *

Aramis made his way down to the yard with only a vague limp in his step. The few other Musketeers not on duty at the moment were sitting at the long plank table, quietly eating their breakfast. Aramis nearly faltered at the sight of them.

So few remained.

As he drew nearer, he couldn't help but tie them to those who had died. Gaston, he had shared a room with Alain. Jean-Luc – his brother Gustave had been in Savoy. Pierre and Demonte had been close friends with Laurent and Gentry.

No one had been untouched by Savoy. Every one of them had felt the blow in one form or another.

When they turned their gazes to him, he could see the despair build in their eyes. He could see the fresh grief welling.

He was a reminder, he realized, of what had been lost.

Tugging his hat down a little tighter to hide his short cropped hair, Aramis painted on as large a smile as he could manage. It would do them no good to see how shattered he was.

"What's for breakfast then, lads?" he asked as he reached them, squeezing Demonte's shoulder. "Not porridge?" he asked in a stage whisper.

Answering chuckles rose around the table and varying expressions of relief filtered over their faces. This is what they needed. They needed for him to smile and to be alright. They needed him not to be a walking reminder of the brothers that had been ripped away from them.

"He added something new," Jean-Luc replied with a grimace. "It tastes a bit like…ash?" he ventured, obviously not content with his description.

Aramis leaned closer, grinning wider.

"An improvement, then?"

This time it was full laughs that answered him. He patted Demonte's shoulder and straightened to his full height, adjusting his hat a bit.

"Well then," he cleared his throat. "Let's see what I can do."

"Thank God," Pierre breathed. "Cheese, if you can."

"A bit of bread," Gaston added.

"An apple," Jean-Luc pleaded.

"I'm not a serving girl," Aramis replied with a chuckle that left his chest feeling tight with how wrong it felt. "You'll take what I manage to retrieve and be happy for it."

They all nodded vigorously and he set off for the refectory.

If Serge wondered at his overly chipper bearing, he didn't comment. But his gaze was narrowed the entire time Aramis spoke to him. And as Aramis returned to the yard armed with his own bowl of porridge as well as a plate full of cheese and bread, he could swear he felt the old veteran's gaze on his back.

Porthos was just coming down the stairs as Aramis deposited the plate of his spoils onto the table and he gave the man a smile.

"Porthos," he held out the bowl of porridge Serge had given him. "For you."

Porthos accepted it as he reached them.

"Where's yours?" he asked suspiciously as he took a piece of bread as Aramis thrust the plate towards him.

"Oh, this is quite enough for me," Aramis held up a piece of bread and cheese pressed together. "You enjoy."

Porthos grimaced and Aramis grinned.

"Too kind," Porthos grumbled.

"Aramis!"

All of them turned to see Henri, the Garrison physician, coming out of the infirmary. Henri did no more than wave a hand, but the instruction was clear enough.

"Well then," Aramis snatched another piece of bread off the plate. "Enjoy gentlemen."

As he walked away, he heard Gaston's voice rise behind him.

"Sit, Porthos. There's room enough for you."

When Aramis smiled in response, he found it wasn't forced at all.

* * *

"It seems to be healing well, my boy," Henri sat back from where he'd been inspecting the scar on Aramis' temple. The wound  _was_ healing well, and in a few months' time the scar would be hidden beneath Aramis' hair.

"How are the headaches?" he asked.

Aramis blinked innocently back at him.

"Headaches?" he questioned blankly.

Henri raised his brow doubtfully. He had been a physician for many years and he had been treating this particular young Musketeer since the regiment had been founded. If there was one thing Aramis could always be counted on to do, it was to downplay his own ailments.

"Yes, boy,  _headaches._ Defined as pain in your head, sometimes sudden, sometimes lingering," Henri explained with a teasing grin.

The dry glare he got in response had Henri chuckling.

"I know you pride yourself on your head being harder than most, but even  _you_ are not immune to such things."

Aramis' eyes narrowed, humor reflecting in his gaze in response to the teasing.

Henri smiled patiently and then gave his charge a serious look.

"How often and how severe?" he asked firmly.

Aramis sighed and rubbed at his temple.

"Not very on both counts," he replied vaguely.

It was Henri's turn to narrow his eyes, sensing deception.

"Would you lie to an old man, Aramis?"

Aramis held his gaze shamelessly and smiled widely.

"Of course not."

Henri didn't bother trying to stifle his disbelieving snort or his eye roll.

"Well, if you  _were_  to suffer such an ailment – as most who've endured such head injuries tend to – there are steps that can be taken to alleviate the pain."

Aramis' brow cocked curiously and Henri took that as permission to go on.

"Find a quiet, dark place. If you've access to cool water, wet cloths and place them on your neck and head. Mostly, try to sleep."

Aramis stared at him and then nodded slightly. It was the closest to an admission of pain that Henri would ever get from him, so the physician accepted it with a nod of his own.

"Now, your leg; how does it take your weight?"

"Well enough," Aramis replied, his hand drifting to lightly rub his thigh. "It hardly pains me anymore."

"Hardly pains you in the same way your headaches are infrequent and lack severity?" Henri challenged with an arched brow.

Aramis shrugged.

"You saw the wound," the marksman reminded. It  _had_ been the first part of Henri's exam.

"Yes," Henri agreed, "I did. And it has healed quite well but not completely. If you push yourself, Aramis, you risk setting back your recovery."

"If I don't push myself, I'll never regain my strength," Aramis challenged.

"Your leg was deeply wounded," Henri reminded firmly, "and those knocks to your head were no small thing. You went  _days_  without treatment, Aramis."

"I'm well aware," Aramis snapped, voice uncharacteristically harsh.

Henri held up a calming hand.

"I am your ally in this, Aramis, not your enemy. My only concern is for  _you_  and your health."

Aramis blew out a breath and looked away, rubbing at his temple again. Henri studied him for a moment.

"I know my own limitations, Henri," Aramis stated confidently, turning his gaze back to meet Henri's. "Quite well."

There was a certain  _something_  in his words, a weight, a memory of a lesson harshly learned. And though Henri doubted Aramis even knew the meaning of the word 'limitation', he didn't have the heart to challenge him.

"If you give me your word you will be  _cautious_ , you may return to  _light_  duty."

"Musket training?" Aramis pressed eagerly.

"Only if your head can take the sound. You may find it makes your  _not_  severe headaches worse." He arched his brow pointedly, letting the boy know that he was still not fooled by the lie.

Aramis looked unperturbed by the warning and Henri sighed. The young man would likely work on his musket and pistol skill even if it  _did_  make his headaches worse. In fact, he was actually smiling at what he likely saw as blanket permission to run off firing weapons left and right.

Henri rolled his eyes.

Aramis narrowed his gaze then, as if considering whether he should bargain further.

"Sword training?" he hedged carefully.

" _Carefully_. You need to listen to your body, Aramis. It will tell you when to stop."

Aramis grinned happily. Probably imagining all the ways he would  _ignore_  his own body's warnings.

"But absolutely no hand-to-hand until those head and leg wounds have had more time to heal," he added firmly.

"Fine," Aramis waved a dismissive hand.

Henri rolled his eyes.

" _And_ ," he stated sharply, drawing Aramis' gaze back to his, "I will be watching you. If at any point I tell you to stop and rest, you  _will_."

Aramis scowled.

"I know my o-"

"Your own limitations, so you said. I don't believe you," Henri replied bluntly. Aramis frowned in offense, but Henri went on without apology, "You forget, I have known you for quite some time. I've seen how terrible you are at looking after yourself."

Aramis opened his mouth to argue, but Henri held up a hand.

"Defer to me in this, Aramis," Henri pleaded. "I would very much like you well enough to drive me to madness for years to come."

The teasing got what he'd hoped for – Aramis grinned.

"Well if it means that much to you," Aramis allowed. "I will bow to your wisdom…for now."

Henri smiled gratefully. He started to stand from his stool. But when Aramis didn't make to rise from the cot he was sitting on, Henri slowly eased back down.

"Is there something more?"

"I've a favor to ask you, old friend," Aramis began carefully.

Henri nodded in encouragement.

"Would you teach me battle medicine?"

Henri blinked in shock.

"Battle medicine?"

"Stitching, setting of bones, digging out musket balls…" Aramis explained with a vague wave of his hand.

"Yes, boy, I know what battle medicine is. What reason have  _you_  to learn it?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth, then Henri  _knew_. He felt his chest tighten as he watched a darkness sweep through Aramis' normally warm and friendly gaze. But just as quickly as it came, the expression disappeared, hidden behind an easy smile.

"Seems a valuable skill," the marksman shrugged slightly. "One that might serve me well in the future."

Henri studied the young man before him. The captain had told him what Aramis had been through, what he'd known of it at least. He'd warned him what injuries the boy had suffered so he could be prepared to look after him.

But looking at Aramis now, Henri was certain there were gaps in the story, things only Aramis knew. Whatever had happened, it had prompted this request. For that alone, Henri could not deny him.

"Of course I'll teach you," he assured. "Though you may find yourself called upon when my old bones demand a rest," he teased. "Or perhaps just when I'm feeling lazy."

The Musketeer smiled vaguely at the joke, but mostly just looked relieved.

Henri felt concern prick in his chest, but before he could think too much about it, Aramis stood.

"When can we start?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Eight
> 
> My headcanon, of course, is that Aramis had to learn to be a medic somewhere and that it was unlikely something he learned on a whim or for fun. Savoy seemed a natural trigger for such an undertaking. Treville also knows the awful truth now, that his men were pawns. A heavy burden of truth to carry, poor man.
> 
> As always, I would love to hear from you all!
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "Stop."
> 
> Aramis went still, staring at Porthos as the large man loomed over him.
> 
> "Just stop, Aramis. You may be foolin' them," he gestured vaguely back towards the yard, "but I see through it. So just stop."
> 
> Aramis couldn't force himself to react. He was too startled to do anything but stare dumbly.


	9. We Can Get Through It All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Eight: Lady_Neve, Thimblerig, Kitperry, issa, HLN, and shanachie
> 
> Sorry we're a bit later tonight - got caught up doing some work stuff!

 

 

_Brotherhood is not just a bible word. Out of comradeship can come and will come a happy life for all.  
_ _**Heywood Brown** _

* * *

_April 20, 1625  
_ _The Musketeer Garrison, Paris_

* * *

When Treville returned to the Garrison, he found those few of his men who weren't on night duty already sitting around the table in the yard. Aramis, however, wasn't among them.

"Where's Aramis?" he demanded gruffly, looking to Porthos.

"Infirmary with Henri," the large Musketeer replied immediately.

It was then that Treville realized that Porthos was sitting with the others. He was a bit distanced from them, but at the table nonetheless. Treville had to force himself out of the surprised stupor from that realization. It was a good thing, a very good thing, and a welcome change amidst all the havoc that had been thrown their way recently.

With a sharp nod of thanks, Treville crossed the yard to the infirmary. He found Henri rolling bandages, but he looked up when Treville strode in.

"Captain," Henri greeted. "What can I do for you?"

"Aramis?" Treville asked, searching the room.

"Captain?" Aramis appeared from the adjoining room – Henri's office – with a bundle of leather in his hands. He crossed the room to hand the rolled leather to Henri and then looked to Treville in question. "You were looking for me?"

"Do you have a moment?" Treville ventured carefully.

Aramis stared at him and then looked to Henri.

"Don't look to me, boy, your time is your own," the old doctor replied with a flippant wave of his hand.

Treville frowned, not entirely certain what situation he'd walked into. Aramis turned back to him and motioned for him to lead the way out of the infirmary.

They walked together through the yard and Aramis leaned to snatch the last piece of cheese off a plate on the table, much to the immediate frustration of those sitting.

"I'm the one who procured it, so keep your complaints to yourself," Aramis replied with an easy grin and a teasing glare. Then he joined Treville at the steps that would lead up to his office.

"Can you take the stairs?" Treville asked, realizing he was not entirely certain about Aramis' current condition. He'd have to ask Henri since Aramis could hardly be trusted to be honest about such things.

"Captain, please," Aramis replied easily with a roll of his eyes. Then he proceeded steadily up the stairs. Treville trotted up to catch him and they entered his office together.

"Your leg seems strong," he commented as he motioned Aramis to a chair and took his seat at the desk.

"Strong enough. Too long in the saddle causes issue, but after a night's rest, it's fit enough."

"What did Henri say?"

"Cleared me for duty," Aramis replied immediately and brightly. "Said I could return to training right away."

"Did he?" Treville challenged doubtfully.

Aramis met his gaze steadily and just smiled.

"You do realize I'm going to speak with him myself before assigning you to anything," Treville pointed out with an arched brow.

Aramis rolled his eyes.

" _Light_  duty," he admitted. "But he  _did_  say I could return to training."

Treville stared at him.

"Fine, musket and sword training so long as I'm cautious, but no hand-to-hand."

Treville nodded. That sounded more likely.

"I'll not assign you anything substantial today. I want you to rest."

"There's no need, Captain," Aramis argued, eyes wide and earnest. "I'm quite well."

"You stopped being able to lie to me years ago, Aramis."

Treville was a bit surprised to see a flash of anger sear through Aramis' gaze before it was hidden away behind a dramatic huff as he rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. The jarring motion seemed to awaken some pain in his head because his hand drifted up to his temple, fingers ghosting over the healing scar.

"Does it pain you?" he found himself asking.

Aramis' brown eyes snapped up to meet his gaze and he abruptly dropped his hand.

"Not much," he replied.

A lie if Treville had ever heard one.

He let it pass, though. What was one more lie between them now?

The king's confession echoed through his head as he stared at the marksman across from him. Just this morning he had been prepared to tell Aramis everything. He had resolved himself to a confession of his own, if only to ease the burden he knew Aramis would carry over this. He had planned to share the truth so that he could meet Aramis' gaze without feeling like his gut was being twisted in a knot.

And now…now the only thing he would be telling him was another lie.

"You wanted to speak to me?" Aramis prodded when Treville remained silent.

"Yes," he managed, clearing his throat and looking down at the papers on his desk. "I need to know what you remember."

"What?" Aramis sounded honestly shocked and it had Treville looking up again.

"Come now," he forced himself to meet Aramis' wide, suddenly vulnerable, gaze, "you must have known this was coming."

Aramis just continued to stare, fading away before Treville's eyes. His gaze grew terrifyingly distant, his skin paled, and his right hand closed compulsively around the stock of one of his pistols.

"Aramis?"

The young soldier blinked and came back to himself with a shuddering breath.

"I'm fine," he stated firmly before Treville could even ask. "I don't remember much," he said, answering the original question. "It's mostly flashes…feelings." His right hand drifted up to touch the scar on his head again and lines of pain tightened around his eyes.

"Do you remember anything about the men who attacked you?" Treville pressed. He prayed for a negative answer. He hoped that he wouldn't have to twist Aramis' memory to his own ends.

Aramis lowered his head, rubbing at his brow.

"Masks," he said after a moment, eyes fixed down on his boots. "They wore masks."

That was good. Masked attackers were anonymous. It would be easy to assign a label to them.

"You don't remember voices?" he asked. "Specific clothing? Anything like that?"

Aramis frowned, gaze still downcast.

"I remember screams…the clash of steel…pistol fire…" he paused and for a moment there was only silence between them. But then Aramis went on, his hand gripping his thigh. "The leader, I fought him…wounded him."

His voice, usually so vibrant and full of life, was haunted now and dangerously distant. Pain and anguish seemed to bleed into the air around him and Treville had to look away.

He had done this. He and Richelieu and the king had  _done this_.

"Marsac," Aramis stated suddenly, lifting his gaze and drawing Treville's back. "I saw him walk away. He's alive."

Treville nodded.

"We found his pauldron abandoned. No one has heard from him."

Aramis inclined his head, seemingly unsurprised by this news.

"He left me there."

Now it was Treville who was transported. He saw a vision of Aramis writhing from fever, pleading in a hoarse voice for the brother who had forsaken him.

_Don't leave me here._

Marsac had deserted more than his duty. He had abandoned his brother. The life he would have, after a choice like that, wouldn't be much of a life at all. Marsac may have survived Savoy, but he had died there just as surely as the others.

Today, his focus was on the one who lived, who had come home. Today, his only concern was ensuring that Aramis would be safe from the cardinal's ever-watchful eye. It was all that mattered now. It was the only thing Treville had left to hold on to in this whole awful mess.

He would protect Aramis, no matter what it cost.

"The attackers, Aramis," Treville brought his wandering focus back to the point. "Do you remember anything else?"

"No," the marksman replied quietly. "I'm sorry."

If Treville's heart was not already shattered in his chest, the quiet apology would have done the job.

"Don't," he scolded gruffly. "Don't do that. This is not your fault."

But as Aramis stared at him with those deep, haunted brown eyes, Treville could see the guilt festering. Aramis had been in command of the mission. In his eyes, the blame lay squarely at his own feet.

Treville found himself opening his mouth, ready to confess everything. Every protective instinct he had demanded he reveal every sordid detail to spare Aramis that misplaced guilt. Carrying the lives of twenty dead was a burden too heavy, as Treville well knew.

But instead, he clenched his jaw closed. To reveal the truth, even in secret, would only put Aramis in danger. He knew, without question, that Aramis would never betray the king, but carrying the burden of such a truth was too much to ask. There would forever be the lingering threat of the cardinal's suspicion. Richelieu, Treville knew, would do whatever it took, would sacrifice  _whoever_ he had to, to ensure that the king and France were safe and secure. Aramis was nothing to a man like Richelieu. He was a problem to be handled, a possible threat to be eliminated. If he ever even  _suspected_  that Aramis knew the truth, he would never be safe.

Perhaps one day, when Savoy was a distant memory and its truth no longer a threat, Treville would be able to tell him. But he knew that day might never come.

It would be lies between them now, lies where once there had been trust and truth.

"We've received reports," Treville stated, "of Spanish raiding parties in that area."

Aramis blinked at him.

"The Spanish?" the marksman asked.

Treville nodded.

Aramis' brow furrowed and his gaze grew reflective.

"They didn't speak Spanish," he muttered a moment later.

Treville felt his heart start to pound. If Aramis spotted the lie, this would all be for nothing.

"Did you hear them speak?" he asked sharply.

Aramis frowned more deeply and rubbed at his head again.

"I…I don't know."

Treville kept his expression impassive, even though his heart clenched at the uncertainty in the marksman's voice.

"Aramis, whatever happened to you," he motioned at Aramis' head, "it's obviously muddled things."

Aramis' fingers lingered at his temple.

"Even if you heard them speak, you may simply not remember."

The young soldier frowned in self-annoyed frustration.

"And that is not your fault," Treville added. "None of this is. This was a tragedy beyond your control."

Aramis didn't look convinced of that by any measure, but he didn't argue with anything but his self-recriminating gaze.

"Do  _you_  think it was the Spanish?" Aramis asked, his gaze weary but trusting.

Treville held his gaze without flinching.

And lied.

"I do."

Aramis nodded and sighed, scrubbing a hand across his eyes and then up into his too-short hair.

"I should have been on my guard," Aramis went on with a shake of his head. "I should have anticipated the Spanish might be in the area."

Treville found himself suddenly unable to hold Aramis' gaze, he looked down, instead, to rearrange some papers on his desk.

"You could not have anticipated such a brutal attack," he insisted.

"The Spanish have been raiding the border lands for years," Aramis disagreed. "They're always brutal. It was careless not to be on my guard."

Treville could hear the self-judgement in his tone. He could hear the pain at the knowledge that he had cost twenty men their lives. The captain could not raise his gaze, no matter how much he wished to offer assurances and comfort. He knew, with surety, that if he looked up again, if he saw the suffering in Aramis' eyes, he would not be able to hold back his confession

"This was not your fault," he repeated, eyes on the papers.

Aramis didn't reply and Treville let silence fall between them. It only lasted a few moments before Aramis was shifting in his seat.

"I'm to start studying with Henri," he announced suddenly, voice too light and cheerful considering how the last several minutes had gone. "He's going to teach me how to treat wounds in the field."

Treville looked up and could only smile in sad understanding when he saw the easy smile and shuttered gaze. The mask had returned, full force. Treville wished he didn't feel so relieved to see it. It was easier to face him when Aramis was pretending. If his suffering and pain were hidden, Treville felt he could actually look him in the eye without feeling the overwhelming need to confess everything.

"A valuable skill," Treville allowed.

"I've a steady hand, he says, likely good for needlework." The proud grin that lit Aramis' face was a touch too bright to feel real, but Treville smiled in return anyway.

"I've no doubt," he agreed.

Aramis fell silent again, staring steadily at him. There was a challenge in his gaze, a silent dare for Treville to sit there and let this pass.

This was the moment of reckoning. Here was when he must commit to this path he'd chosen. If he kept up the pretense, allowed Aramis' charade, it would change things between them forever. He would be putting a distance between them that hadn't been there since their early days. If he turned him away now, Aramis would never look to him in this way again, would never look to him for comfort or understanding. Treville would be saying, without ever using the words, that Aramis' pain was not his concern.

Perhaps this was the greatest lie of all.

But he could not keep Aramis at his side. He could not shepherd him through this tragedy. He couldn't do it because he was  _weak._  He was too weak to hold back the terrible truth if he had to face Aramis' suffering and undeserved guilt every day. If he had any hope of keeping this secret, of protecting Aramis from the threat the truth entailed, he had to do this.

From this moment on, he could no longer be the mentor – the  _father_  – he had been. He could only be his captain.

"You're dismissed," he said steadily.

Aramis went absolutely still, barely even seeming to breath.

Then he smiled – a sad, resigned little thing that cut Treville to his core – and nodded his head once as if some private point had just been proven.

Then he stood and straightened his spine to attention.

"Then by your leave, Captain." He dipped his chin in a formal show of respect.

Treville dipped his own in return.

And Aramis was gone.

Treville told himself, as he forced his gaze back down to the papers on his desk, that he didn't feel the loss deep into his soul.

* * *

Aramis closed Treville's door behind him and leaned back against it, certain, in that moment, that without its support, he would go to his knees.

Then he just stood there, forcing himself to breath.

He felt unsteady and off center, as if his entire world had just been altered irreparably.

For six years, Treville had been his constant, his rock. From the moment they met, the captain had gone to great lengths to prove he was someone who could be relied on. He had seen the mask Aramis wore and stripped it away, forcing him to honesty.

Aramis had always been one prone to masks, to adapting to whatever situation he found himself in. If he needed to be convincing, he turned on the charm. If he needed to instill fear, he let his inherent ruthlessness shine through. If he needed to inspire confidence, he showed the steady, strong soldier.

The day he met Treville, he'd been balancing a combination of the three.

He'd been seventeen and  _walking_  across France on his way back from Spain. He'd been combatting broken ribs and a twisted knee – the unhappy result of having his stolen horse shot out from under him. He'd been tired, hungry, and anxious to get back to his regiment to pass on what he'd learned.

Then, out of nowhere, a soldier had ridden over the horizon and cut him off.

His own military sword, left behind initially but recovered once he'd crossed back into France – and incidentally the weapon he'd used to kill his pursuers – had given away his own occupation.

Treville had thought him a deserter and had threatened to arrest him right then and there.

Aramis had done the only thing that he could think of short of disclosing the clandestine nature of his mission.

He'd drawn his sword and dared Treville with a vicious grin to try and take him.

It had been, admittedly, a reckless and foolish thing to do. But desperation tended to paint the world into odd colors and made certain choices more appealing than they should be.

Treville had been surprised by his skill, that had been obvious. Common soldiers weren't often tutored in the finer points of swordsmanship. However, the fight had been short and had pushed Aramis well past what little endurance he had left. In the end, he'd been dragging himself up for the  _third_  time when Treville had put an end to it.

" _Who_ _ **are**_ _you?"_  Treville had said with something like awe in his voice.

" _Aramis, of His Majesty's esteemed infantry, at your service,"_ Aramis had replied with a smirk.

And then he had promptly fainted.

He'd woken to a stern, but concerned, glare, and by the end of it, Aramis had somehow confessed everything. No matter what he had tried, what lie he'd told or distraction he'd presented, the captain had seen right through it. Treville had never allowed him to hide behind such things again. He had urged him to face the challenges life presented head on, always with the understood promise that Treville would be at his side.

But today, Treville had looked him in the eye, seen the mask…and had let him hide behind it.

And just like that, a gulf opened between them.

With nothing more than two simple words –  _"You're dismissed" –_ Treville had severed the bond they shared and left Aramis adrift and alone.

Drawing in a deep breath, Aramis straightened away from the door.

The mask was all he had now.

Whatever brotherhood Porthos appeared to offer couldn't be trusted or relied on. Treville's support had been summarily withdrawn. The rest of the Musketeers had their own grief to tend to.

And all of them seemed content, even relieved, to let Aramis hide behind his smiles and laughter.

It was better this way, he realized. He needed the talking and the laughter to fill the silence anyway. He needed it to keep his sanity intact.

It was best for everyone if he just painted on the smile and continued on as he had before Savoy.

With that resolve, Aramis forced a grin and headed for the stairs.

* * *

Porthos watched Aramis trot down the stairs. He stared on quietly as the marksman smiled and greeted the small group of them.

"Who's up for a short bout of sparring? I've not had a good workout in ages," he questioned brightly, hand resting on his sword.

The others shared a look, silently debating who would volunteer. Before Savoy, Aramis had been arguably one of the best swordsman in the regiment. He was a bit dramatic and tended to be more flamboyant with his style than most, but there was no denying his skill. Porthos had also learned, the hard way, that he could fight just as well with his left hand as his right. Agreeing to spar with him used to be agreeing to  _lose_.

But that was before Savoy. Before a deep leg wound and a devastating head injury.

When Gaston stood and offered an answering grin, he actually looked fairly confident.

But Porthos didn't stay to watch them move out into the yard, instead, he started for the stairs.

He had counted on Treville to  _fix this_. He had waited, as patiently as he could, for the captain to see how precariously Aramis was holding it together and to do something about it. But instead, Aramis had come out of his office with the same false smile painted across his face.

He knocked once on the door, waited for the call to enter, and then stormed into the captain's office.

"Why are you allowing this?" he demanded.

Treville sat back in his chair, regarding Porthos with a cool, calm gaze. The reprimand was written all over his face and Porthos felt the sting of it though the captain never spoke a word.

"Forgive me," he muttered. "I spoke out of turn."

Treville stood and slowly rounded the desk to face Porthos eye to eye.

"He needs it." Three simple words that showed the captain knew exactly why he was here.

Porthos shook his head in denial.

"It's not right," he insisted. "He's  _drowning_  in this and if you don't see that, then you're blind."

"That's enough," Treville snapped. "I'll forgive your insubordination  _once_  because you care about him. But this is not your concern."

Porthos stiffened his shoulders, glaring across the space between them.

"He  _is_  my concern. And I thought he was  _yours_  too."

For half a heartbeat, Treville looked completely devastated, but just as quickly, he turned away, rounding his desk again.

"Aramis is strong. He'll be fine."

Porthos shook his head in disbelief.

They both looked to the window at the sound of someone calling Aramis' name in warning. Porthos realized now they had been hearing the sound of clashing steel for several minutes now.

Porthos started immediately for the door and ripped it open, stepping out onto the landing to look down at the yard. He hardly noticed Treville step out next to him.

They both watched Aramis disarm Gaston in one skilled, smooth move and then ruthlessly slam the hand guard of his own sword into the other man's chin. Gaston hit the ground hard, stunned, and Aramis brought the blade down, the point pressing to Gaston's exposed throat.

"Aramis!"

* * *

_A few minutes earlier…_

* * *

"Now, Gaston, it's been some time since I properly sparred." Aramis grinned and winked. "Be gentle with me."

Gaston chuckled and drew his sword, twisting the handguard up to his chin and saluting properly.

"I'll defeat you with the utmost care," the other man promised.

Aramis grinned wider and drew his own rapier, returning the salute.

He'd needed something to do, something to focus on while he waited for morning muster. Left to his own thoughts he would only dwell on the radical shift between him and Treville.

Freshly cleared to train, a quick, light sparring session seemed a proper solution.

He pulled off his hat and tossed it to Pierre, who dutifully placed it on the table.

Then he faced Gaston.

He waited, content to let the other man make the first move. Gaston did not disappoint. So when he lunged, Aramis was ready for him.

What he  _wasn't_  ready for was the abrupt shift in the world around him the moment their blades crossed. The Garrison was gone in a blink and in its place was a snowy forest. Instead of Gaston, he saw the masked leader of the men who had attacked them.

A heartbeat later, reality righted itself and Aramis barely managed to defend Gaston's next advance. He blinked rapidly, feeling a bit as if the ground was wobbling beneath his feet. When his blade clashed with Gaston's again, the Garrison flashed from existence and he was in the forest of Savoy again.

This time, realty wasn't so quick in returning and before he realized what he was happening, Aramis was fighting for his life. He stopped defending and advanced, pushing aside the lingering weakness in his leg and ignoring the ever-present aching in his head.

He bore down on his enemy with all of his considerable skill and had him disarmed in a matter of moments. A sharp strike with his hand guard put the man on the ground. He swung his blade down, ready to end it.

"Aramis!"

He froze.

 _Porthos_.

Reality returned in a heady rush, leaving him dizzy with the sudden change. He blinked down at Gaston, who had a hand pressed to his chin, and quickly removed his blade from its threatening position. A glance around showed the others staring on with wide eyes.

Aramis stepped back and forced himself to smile.

"It seems it's I who should have used a bit more care. Are you alright, Gaston?"

He offered a hand to the Musketeer on the ground. Gaston hesitated, then smiled in relief, letting Aramis pull him up.

"I've been a bit overzealous," he admitted. "Too long without a good bout and I found myself caught in the moment. You have my apologies, my friend."

Gaston waved him off.

"I might have known you'd be no easy contest," the other Musketeer admitted with a chuckle. "You've never been one to do anything half speed."

Aramis laughed in response and heard the others chuckling as well. A glance around showed eyes shining with mirth and relief.

"Go, have Henri look at you for the sake of my conscience," he urged. "I owe you a drink tonight."

Gaston nodded and smiled.

"I'll hold you to that." Then he turned and headed towards the infirmary, hand still pressed to his chin. The others dispersed as well, all suddenly quite absorbed with one thing or another.

Aramis tossed his sword up, caught the blade and then fed it into his scabbard. Once the sword was safely stowed, he realized his hands were shaking.

Somebody dropped something on the table and he resisted the urge to draw his sword again.

Feeling suddenly overly exposed and anxious, he headed quickly for the nearest source of privacy. Once he was beyond the doorway, he looked around to find himself in the armory. His hands twitched in anticipation and he reached for a musket and a cleaning kit.

He settled on a bench and almost immediately felt a blanket of calm settle over him.

This was something familiar and practiced, something he could lose himself in and forget everything else. He had known how to properly clean and care for a musket since he was ten years old and it had always been a task he found peace in. But even wrapped in the catharsis of cleaning the weapon, he sensed immediately when Porthos joined him in the armory.

"You left this."

Aramis suddenly found his hat hovering before his eyes. For a moment, he could only stare. But then he drew in a breath and lifted his gaze, drawing up a smile from somewhere within.

"All the excitement," he explained. "It's been too long since I've felt the rush of good combat, I must have gotten-"

"Stop."

Aramis went still, staring at Porthos as the large man loomed over him.

"Just  _stop_ , Aramis. You may be foolin' them," he gestured vaguely back towards the yard, "but I see through it. So just stop."

Aramis couldn't force himself to react. He was too startled to do anything but stare dumbly.

Porthos dropped to a crouch, getting closer to Aramis' level, and held his gaze.

"I've been at your side for two weeks, Aramis," he went on softly. "I've been there through the nightmares. I've seen the way you always keep a weapon close at hand. I've drawn you back when you lose yourself to memory. I've been there and I've  _seen_ all of it. You don't have to hide it from me now."

Aramis clenched his jaw, feeling a swell of emotion rise in his chest at the quiet, heartfelt words. How was it that Porthos, whom he had known scarcely a month before Savoy, was the only one not willing to let him carry on the charade? These men he had served with for years were all content to let him go on pretending. Treville was more than happy to let Aramis hide behind his mask. Even Henri and Serge had let him carry on as if all was well.

But not Porthos.

The swell of emotion was quickly replaced by an irrational wave of anger.

How was it that  _only_  Porthos was unwilling to leave him to his demons? Was he worth so little to everyone else?

"Aramis…" Porthos rested a hand on his arm.

Aramis stood abruptly, withdrawing from the touch as quickly as he could. The musket clattered to the floor between them.

"I'm not the one pretending," he accused.

Porthos stood to face him, Aramis' hat still clenched in one hand.

"I've told you," Porthos replied steadily. "I'm not pretending."

"Of course you are," Aramis shot back, his anger igniting in a rush of heat that left him feeling dizzy. "Why else would you follow me around like a lost puppy? Are you so pathetic, Porthos? Or do you just think  _me_  pathetic? That I would fall on my knees and thank you for your friendship? Is that what you want?"

"No," the larger man denied firmly.

"Then what? What do you  _want_ , Porthos? I'm not a fool. I'll not be taken in so easily again."

Aramis suddenly found his back cracking against the wall. His hat was on the ground and two strong hands were fisted in his doublet.

"I'm not Marsac," Porthos growled. "I'm not the one who abandoned you!" A sharp shake had Aramis' head thudding against the wall. "I'll say it in every way I can until you  _hear me_. I'm not pretending, Aramis. I'm not trying to fool you. I will  _never_  abandon you as he did. I'll say it every day, in every way I can, until you understand it. Until you  _believe_ it. Because one day you  _will_. One day, you'll trust our brotherhood again and I'll still be here, waiting."

Another sharp shake and he was released. Porthos leaned and snatched his hat off the floor and then shoved it against his chest.

"You'll not drive me away. And I'll not stop standing at your side. So get used to it."

Aramis had nothing to say. He felt as if Porthos had taken his defenses and trampled them. Every part of his heart urged him to just  _trust_  in Porthos, to let him in and accept the brotherhood he was offering. But his head cried out the opposite. His head warned him of betrayal and false promises.

For a moment, he was back in that damned forest, watching Marsac walk away and leaving him to die.

The memory left him gutted every time.

He would never feel that betrayal again. He would protect himself from it in every way he could.

So without a word, Aramis fitted his hat onto his head and brushed past Porthos to the door. He heard a deep sigh and the sounds of Porthos following him. Aramis just kept moving, trying, and failing, to muster the expected smile before he made it to the yard.

As it turned out, the others were all distracted anyway.

There, standing at the Garrison gate with a wide smile and leaning lazily on a cane, was another of Treville's original five Musketeers.

Aramis slowed to a stop, jaw slacking with shock.

"Tristan."

* * *

"Tristan."

Porthos came to stand at Aramis' side. The other man sounded awed and disbelieving and relieved all at once. Across the yard, near the gate, a man with long blonde hair, knotted back at the nape of his neck, started towards them, moving carefully with the aid of a smooth brown cane.

"Aramis," the stranger – Tristan, Porthos assumed – greeted, holding out an inviting arm.

Aramis immediately moved forward to meet him, pulling off his hat as he went. They met with a fierce and firm embrace that lasted long enough that the others moved back to whatever they'd been doing. Porthos drifted closer, curious at the open display of affection given how Aramis had kept all others at arm's length since they returned. He saw Tristan's mouth moving near Aramis' ear, voice pitched too low for Porthos to hear. Aramis shifted his head in a nod and then they finally drew apart.

Tristan kept a hand on Aramis' shoulder and leaned on his cane. Porthos arched a brow curiously when Aramis didn't shrug away the contact.

"What's this?" Tristan teased, shifting his hand off Aramis' shoulder to brush through his short hair. "The women of Paris must have flooded the Seine with their tears."

Aramis chuckled, earning a surprised glance from Porthos, and rubbed a self-conscious hand through his hair. It was as if the marksman grew younger before his eyes. The tension in his shoulders eased and something within him grew lighter as he met the older man's gaze. When Tristan caught his chin and turned his head to clearly see the scar, Aramis allowed it without protest.

But instead of commenting, Tristan just dropped his hand back to Aramis' shoulder and squeezed it. Something silent passed between them then. Porthos couldn't say exactly what it was, but it made one thing abundantly clear: Tristan was not held to the same standard as Porthos or the others. Where there was distrust and wary caution hidden in the marksman's gaze around the other Musketeers, there was nothing of the kind with Tristan. There was trust and old familiarity.

Despite the vein of jealousy such a realization inspired, Porthos found himself equally intrigued. Was Tristan not also a Musketeer? Capable of the same failure of brotherhood that Aramis feared from the rest of them? Perhaps it was simply that Tristan was no longer an active member of the regiment and thereby would never be in a position to betray Aramis as Marsac had done. Or maybe Aramis had held Tristan as something closer to a mentor, like Treville, and less a comrade. Or perhaps it was simply that Tristan had been gone a long time and held no tie to Savoy, no reminder.

Porthos couldn't guess what the truth of it was.

He was drawn from his musing when, all at once, Tristan turned his focus on  _him._

"Tristan Moreau," he greeted, shifting his cane under his arm so he could extend a hand to him. "Formerly of the King's Musketeers."

Porthos met the hand with a firm shake.

"Porthos du Vallon," he replied. " _Currently_  of the King's Musketeers."

Tristan smiled warmly, resting his weight back on his cane.

"You were of the original five, weren't you?" Porthos wondered. Everyone in the regiment knew the story of Treville's original Musketeers. Even now, with Aramis the only one of them remaining in service, their names were not forgotten.

"I was indeed," Tristan replied, looking back at Aramis, "along with this one. Though he was just a little kitten when we started out," he added with a teasing wink.

Aramis rolled his eyes and knocked Tristan's hand from his shoulder.

"He never did like that comparison," Tristan offered to Porthos in a loud whisper. "I always told him that if he didn't want to be compared to a kitten, he shouldn't spend so much time preening and taking such pleasure in getting a nice pet." Tristan reached to rub at Aramis' hair again, only to have his hand pushed away for a second time.

Porthos didn't even bother trying to hide his grin.

"Kitten, huh?"

Aramis pinned him with a dark glare.

"Repeat that to anyone and you'll regret it."

Porthos held up his hands in surrender.

"Ah, these look familiar." Tristan poked at one of the pistols hooked on Aramis' belt. Without being asked, Aramis pulled it free and offered it to the veteran Musketeer. "You've taken good care of them. Though that's no surprise. I knew you would." He glanced at Porthos again. "This one's always been a bit obsessive about weapons maintenance. I can only blame myself, really. I always told him 'Respect your weapon and…'"

"'It will respect you,'" Aramis finished, taking back the pistol and hooking it on his belt.

"I've heard him say the same a time or two," Porthos replied.

Tristan smiled proudly at the marksman and returned to gripping his shoulder. Aramis allowed it this time.

"Tristan retired some time ago," Aramis explained with a glance at Porthos. "He's been living the easy life of husbandry and fatherhood ever since."

"Easy?" Tristan scoffed. "You try worrying after a recklessly impulsive six-year-old who would sooner defy death itself than do  _anything_  with a measure of caution." A teasing smirk turned up his lips. "At least I had good practice looking after  _you_."

Porthos chuckled and Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Collette is well then?" the marksman asked with a grin.

"Drives her mother to distraction with her wildness, but yes, quite well," Tristan answered.

For the moment, everything felt simple. Aramis wasn't looking as if one wrong move would shatter him and Porthos felt lighter and calmer in the face of Tristan's open warmth.

"What made you retire?" he asked, eager to prolong the peace.

"A sword," he poked a finger at a spot on his chest, "just here. It was a miracle I survived at all. My lung was damaged and never healed properly after that. I find myself quite short of breath most days, hardly a condition conducive to running around France playing the dramatic hero. So I resigned my commission and left Aramis to carry on the mantel of the king's first and finest alone. Well, alone with Treville at least."

"What happened to the others?" Porthos asked, though he'd heard the stories.

"Dujon and Thierry were killed back in '21 at Montauban," Aramis replied. "Etienne retired in…" he looked to Tristan for confirmation.

"Twenty three," the veteran replied. "Then I met my fate in December of that same year and let Aramis take over as best shot in the regiment, a position he'd coveted from the beginning."

Aramis scoffed, but didn't outright contradict the bold claim. Tristan smiled and squeezed Aramis' shoulder.

"I gifted him those pistols on my last day as a Musketeer," the older man went on warmly. "We were always kindred souls when it came to gunplay, he and I."

Porthos blinked in shock. Those pistols were ornate and had likely been expensive. It was an extravagant gift to give when  _you_  were the one leaving. It wasn't the kind of thing you gave to a mere comrade in arms, but rather between something more akin to family.

"You were a marksman," Porthos realized, "like Aramis."

Tristan chuckled, the hand he had on Aramis' shoulder tightening.

"None have ever been quite like this little kitten," the older man replied, smirking at the glower Aramis sent his way. "I was good, but despite my bold claims, this one has always been the best. I was able to leave secure in the knowledge that the regiment was in good hands."

Porthos watched Aramis go pale, tension tightening his shoulders and a darkness sweeping through his gaze. He shifted closer, arm brushing Aramis' as he considered reaching out his own hand to grip Aramis' other shoulder. Tristan, too, seemed to recognize the change and he came a step closer. The veteran's eyes were wide and he look stricken by how his words had been taken.

"Aramis…I didn't-"

"What brings you back to Paris?" Aramis cut him off, speaking too cheerfully and with a smile too bright. "Not coming out of retirement are you? Is my title as the regiment's finest marksman, once again, under contest?"

Porthos saw clearly that Tristan was not fooled. Up until this moment the returning Musketeers had worn an easy smile and open expression, but now his eyes were sad and his mouth turned down in a worried frown. But instead of voicing his concern, he shifted his weight more heavily on his cane, though his hand stayed steady on Aramis' shoulder.

"Treville sent for me," he answered. "Once a Musketeer, always a Musketeer, and so I heeded the call."

"Then you best not keep him waiting," Aramis replied and though he was still smiling, there was an edge to his voice. It was slight, but Porthos heard it. So, it appeared, did Tristan.

There was obvious conflict playing out in the older man's gaze as he weighed his response. But, in the end, he just nodded.

"Best not," he agreed mildly. His hand slid from Aramis' shoulder, but he hesitated before moving away. "We'll catch up later," he added resolutely, but with a gentle warmth that gave away his concern. "I'm sure you've many new stories to tell."

Aramis' easy grin did not fade and he looked unconcerned by the promise of conversation to come. When Tristan finally walked away from them towards the steps that would take him to Treville, Aramis did not move.

Porthos shifted, purposefully brushing his shoulder solidly against the marksman's. He was rewarded by a fleeting glance in his direction.

"You know he didn't mean it like that," Porthos pointed out quietly.

He was relieved with Aramis sighed, some – but not all – of the tension fading from his shoulders.

"I know," he admitted, lifting a hand to brush through his short hair before fitting his hat onto his head. "But the implication is no less truthful."

Before Porthos could react, could fervently remind Aramis that what happened in Savoy was  _not_  his fault, Aramis shifted away from him.

"We've only a few minutes until muster," Aramis commented. "I need to speak with Henri."

And once again, Aramis was gone.

* * *

Treville stared at the infirmary entry from his office window. Aramis had only just vanished through that door and even now Porthos was drifting after him, obviously debating if he should follow.

The sound of his office door opening without invitation had him pulling his attention to his visitor.

"Tristan," he greeted warmly, crossing the office to meet his old friend with a brief, firm hug.

"Jean," Tristan squeezed his shoulder tightly and offered him a friendly smile. "It's been too long."

"No one forced you to retire so far from Paris," Treville reminded gruffly as he offered Tristan a seat and rounded his desk to sit in his own.

"My  _wife_  did," Tristan replied with a chuckling huff, "I think she feared I would not  _remain_  retired if we were too close to the city."

"How is Marie?" Treville asked, remembering the short, lean woman who had been the only person so far to tame Tristan's thirst for adventure.

"Exhausted," Tristan replied with a sly grin, "and often feeling ill. Though that should pass in a month or two."

Treville blinked, surprise rendering him momentarily silent. Tristan's joyful grin took away any question that may have lingered.

"Another?" Treville wondered, finding himself unable to resist smiling.

Tristan nodded.

"She's convinced it will be a boy this time." Tristan chuckled nervously. "Colette is wild enough on her own, hardly pausing to acknowledge little things like sewing or cooking. No, she would rather be swinging through the trees and taming wild animals. Adding a  _boy_  to the mix is a bit…terrifying."

"Stop pretending you aren't counting the days until you'll be able to put a pistol in his hands," Treville teased. Tristan laughed but didn't deny it.

He shifted in his seat, sighing deeply.

"When I received your letter, it was Marie who told me to come. When I told her what had happened, and that Aramis' fate, at the time, was still uncertain, she packed my things herself."

Treville smiled sadly, unable to stop himself from glancing to the open window and the infirmary door that lay somewhere beyond it. He had sent letters to Tristan and Etienne directly from the inn they'd brought Aramis to in Savoy. He had known any help they could offer would be needed. Etienne had replied that he was too ill to travel, confined most days to bed due to crippling arthritis.

"She remembers him quite fondly," Tristan went on, his voice soft, but then he smiled. "She's already insisting that if our child is a boy, his name will be Aramis."

Treville could not help but smile at that. Aramis, no doubt, would be deeply honored and thrilled to be the namesake for Tristan's son.

"I'm here, Jean, for whatever you need."

Treville looked back at him, feeling his own focus narrow back to the matter at hand.

"We lost more than half our number in Savoy," Treville revealed. "We stood at nearly forty and now we have a mere fifteen, not enough men to fulfill all the duties for which we are now responsible."

"So recruitment is a priority," Tristan nodded.

Treville nodded.

"The cardinal has agreed to have his Red Guard take on some duties for now until we can rebuild. And though I hate to show such weakness, I have little choice. The men who remain need to sleep sometime and there simply aren't enough of them."

"We've done the job with less men," Tristan reminded. "There were only five of us, and you, in the beginning."

"Yes," Treville sighed, rubbing at his weary eyes, "but those were the days of nothing but guarding Louis and delivering the most important missives. We patrol the streets now, have taken responsibility for the security of the palace grounds, offer escorts to the king's favorite nobles, and investigate the more worrisome crimes, just to name a few. Fifteen men is not enough, fourteen, really, with Aramis restricted to light duty."

"So you need men," Tristan agreed. "And quickly. How?"

Treville could not express how much he appreciated Tristan's single minded focus.

"I am going to request special authority from the king to issue commissions without his blessing, as it was in the old days. That will give us a bit more freedom."

"What do you suggest?" Tristan pressed. "Sifting through the infantry and cavalry?"

"I've sent letters to the various commanding officers, asking for recommendations, but at best, that will only yield a handful of men ready for immediate commission."

"So? What do we do?"

"Something we've never done before," Treville replied. His idea was a new one, something that would surely give them more able bodies while not being forced to offer commissions immediately. "I want to create a cadet system."

Tristan's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"The application process would be open to any soldier who wishes to earn a commission," Treville continued. "We would assign each cadet to a Musketeer for training and, hopefully, over time they will earn the promotion by their own merit. It increases our strength in one move."

"Without having to offer commissions to unproven soldiers." Tristan nodded, looking thoughtful. "What do you need from me?"

"General training," Treville replied immediately. "The remaining men can teach methods and protocols and things of that nature. I need you to ensure that each cadet can meet the physical and skill requirements – musket training, fencing, hand to hand, and horsemanship. I will not see our reputation for excellence sacrificed out of desperation."

Tristan was nodding again, gaze determined.

"I would have authority to dismiss a cadet who doesn't meet the standard?" he asked seriously.

"If you believe they cannot improve enough with training, yes," Treville agreed.

"It's a good plan, Jean. One you might consider keeping in place even when the numbers are replenished. Giving men a chance to earn their commission, to  _work_  towards it, will serve as a great motivation."

Treville hummed noncommittally. He would consider continuing the cadet program once it had proven its value. For now, his focus was on the moment.

"I wonder, though," Tristan drew his attention back and Treville could tell by his tone  _exactly_  what was coming, "why you need  _me_  for this. Aramis has proven many times how competent a trainer he is."

Treville clenched his jaw and his gaze chilled as Tristan stared at him expectantly.

"Aramis is on light duty."

Tristan's eyebrow arched skeptically.

"For now, perhaps. But he looked fit enough, more fit than  _I_ am for such a task." Tristan raised his cane demonstratively. "You've trained him as your second, however unofficially, since the day you founded this regiment. Why are you not looking to him now?"

"You've spoken to him," Treville pointed out, not caring if it gave away his earlier spying, "so you  _know_  why."

"He's just survived hell," Tristan pointed out. "He's earned the right to have unsteady footing. But it won't always be so. If he's to lead one day…"

"He's not," Treville snapped bluntly. "Perhaps before, but things have changed."

Tristan's bright green gaze hardened to an accusing glare.

"Do you  _blame_  him for what happened? Fault him in some way?"

"No!" Treville denied sharply. "Of course not."

"Well he blames  _himself_ ," Tristan spat back. "Anyone with eyes can see that. If you are seen to doubt him, he'll never trust himself again."

"Tristan," Treville warned lowly. He didn't want to talk about Aramis. He didn't want to dwell on how spectacularly he was failing as a captain, a mentor, a  _father_.

"He needs to know you still trust him."

"He  _needs_  to take a step back."

"Who decided that? You?" Tristan sat forward, eyes blazing angrily. "That boy is a born soldier, he always has been. But something like this could shake the very foundation he's built his life on. You need to steady him, Jean! You need to support him, not  _doubt_  him, until he can find even ground again."

"I  _can't_!" Treville snapped, standing abruptly and pacing to the window. Porthos was lingering near the infirmary, Aramis must still be inside.

"What's going on, Jean," Tristan asked carefully. "You've never let him carry on like this before. You allowed his masks when they were necessary, but you never let him  _hide_  behind them."

Treville closed his eyes against the truth of his friend's accusing words. He was grateful Tristan was behind him and could not see the anguish that was surely written on his face.

"You've always forced him to face such things, straight on, like a man.  _Why_  are you allowing this now?"

"There are pieces to this, Tristan, that you do not understand. Things I cannot tell you. Please trust me when I tell you that I am doing what I must."

He heard Tristan shift and then the sound of his cane on the floor as he approached. He came to stand next to Treville at the window, looking out at the yard with him.

"You know what Aramis means to me," Tristan stated quietly.

Treville nodded solemnly. Tristan and Aramis had been close from the beginning, bonding over their mutual love of muskets and pistols. While Treville had been the father Aramis needed, Tristan had been, unequivocally, the  _brother_. Tristan had been the one to spend hours in target practice with him. Tristan had been the one to joke and laugh with him the most. Tristan had listened to the exaggerated stories Aramis loved to tell and had often suggested clever ways to exaggerate them further. Treville had never truly been  _friends_  with Aramis, but Tristan had. Aramis, Treville knew, had spent many nights eating dinner at Tristan's house and getting fussed over by Marie. Aramis had doted on Colette and was responsible, Tristan had often claimed, for her wild nature.

"He can't go on like this," Tristan insisted. "Do you remember Medina? Do you remember what he was like after that?"

"Of course I do," Treville replied gruffly.

He didn't like to dwell on that time, on how close they had come to losing Aramis, even after he returned to them. Darío Medina would forever be a cursed name for Treville.

"You pulled him out of that, Jean," Tristan reminded. "He needs you to do that again."

Treville just shook his head.

"There is nothing I can do for him."

Tristan huffed in annoyance and muttered a curse under his breath. For a moment they watched the men start to gather for morning muster. Treville watched Porthos shift towards the rest of the men, though his focus appeared to remain on the infirmary.

"Then perhaps someone else can do what you  _can't_." Tristan was angry with him, furious even, but he sounded resigned now. "Porthos du Vallon. Who is he?"

Treville glanced at Tristan warily, his mind falling back to a kind and strong young woman staring at him in confusion as he left her in the Court of Miracles with a baby in her arms.

"He's a recent recruit from the infantry," he answered carefully.

"What is he to Aramis?"

Treville saw, now, where this was going.

"I assigned him to Aramis when he was recruited for several reasons, the least of which being he's quite skilled and I wanted that properly fostered."

"They're friends?"

"You know Aramis," Treville answered. "He's a friend to everyone he meets."

Tristan hummed his agreement and smiled slightly.

"But even I was surprised by how quickly the two of them seemed to bond," the captain went on. "Porthos has been devoted since Savoy. He stayed with him while he recovered and traveled back with him. He claims Aramis as a brother with both words and actions."

Tristan nodded as if he'd suspected this all along.

"Then perhaps there  _is_  something you can do for him, Jean."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 9
> 
> As you can see with Henri, Marc, and now Tristan, I enjoy creating original characters to add some more layers to the story. Rest assured they are not here to steal the spotlight from the main characters but hopefully rather to enhance their stories instead. That's the goal at least.
> 
> As always, I'm anxious to hear what you think!
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "I wish he'd stayed, sometimes." Aramis surprised him by going on, though his attention went back to his task with the musket.
> 
> "So you were close, then?" he guessed, hoping to turn Aramis' thoughts to happier memories.
> 
> Aramis' smile now was small, but warm.
> 
> "Very. Each of them, the others Treville had chosen, taught and trained me in their own ways, but Tristan most of all. Besides Treville at least."
> 
> "With muskets?" Porthos theorized, given what Tristan had revealed earlier.
> 
> Aramis smirked, eyes lighting up with pride as he glanced up.
> 
> "As if I needed help with such a thing," he boasted.


	10. Brother, Let Me Be Your Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Nine: Thimblerig, Lady_Neve, HLN, and issa

 

* * *

_He is my most beloved friend and my bitterest rival, my confidant and my betrayer, my sustainer and my dependent, and scariest of all, my equal.  
_ _**Gregg Levoy** _

* * *

_April 20, 1625  
_ _The Musketeer Garrison, Paris_

* * *

Aramis wasn't terribly surprised when he was assigned to maintenance and inventory in the armory. He was restricted to light duty, which meant he wasn't likely going to be given a duty outside the Garrison. When he found himself in such a situation, the armory was on the list of his favorite 'light duty' assignments – Treville knew this.

He  _was_ , however, surprised that Porthos was assigned the duty with him.

"What? Why?" he asked a bit too loudly as he stared at Treville from his place in the muster line.

The yard fell silent in the face of his outburst and Tristan, at Treville's shoulder, shook his head, casting his eyes towards the heavens as if seeking strength. Porthos shifted uncomfortably at Aramis' side, but didn't otherwise react.

Treville's sharp gaze cut through the space between them, snapping Aramis' mouth closed.

"The rest of your duties are on the posting," Treville finished, though his glare stayed with Aramis. "Dismissed."

The rest of the men fell out, anxious, it seemed, to flee the impending scolding lest they get caught in the crossfire. Porthos, though, stayed steady at Aramis' side.

He couldn't decide if the steadfastness infuriated him or comforted him.

He wasn't given time to sort through the conflicting emotions before Treville was marching towards him. Aramis held his ground and lifted his chin defiantly as the captain came to stand nose to nose with him.

"Something to say to me?" Treville nearly growled.

"I don't need a nursemaid," Aramis snapped back recklessly.

"Hey now…" Porthos grunted in offense.

"I could have you confined to quarters, if you prefer," Treville threatened.

Aramis bristled.

"I'm not an invalid."

"Really?" Treville challenged. "Because here I thought the only way you would show such blatant insubordination was if you had taken leave of your  _senses!"_

Aramis' jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.

"You'll take the duty your assigned and be happy for it," the captain ordered. "As for Porthos, what duties he's assigned are not yours to question."

After a moment longer of burning Aramis down with his glare, Treville spun on his heel and marched away. Tristan offered Aramis a rueful shrug and followed in the captain's wake.

"Bit of a relief, actually," Porthos commented idly. "I'm exhausted."

Aramis shot the larger man a fleeting glare and headed for the armory. After their explosive conflict before muster, Aramis was wary of spending the day with him. He had been waiting, longing even, for Treville to  _see_  him, to pull him from behind his mask of smiles and cheerful words and just…just  _be there_  to deal with whatever pieces of Aramis were left.

Instead, it was  _Porthos_  who had started pulling at the mask; it was  _Porthos_  who was seeing beyond it.

It made Aramis infuriatingly angry. So angry that scathing, cruel words were on the edge of his lips, ready to be unleashed to drive the other man away. He knew it was unfair, to be directing that anger at the only person who was even bothering with him. But no matter how well Aramis  _knew_  that, he couldn't help the anger.

Because it shouldn't be Porthos. It was supposed to be Treville.

But even in his unfair fury, Aramis felt a contradicting emotion simmering beneath the haze of rage.

Relief.

Relief that even if it was the wrong man pulling him from his hiding place, even if he couldn't allow himself to trust that Porthos wouldn't eventually do as Marsac had done and betray him, he was not alone.

More than anything he didn't want to be alone, not ever again.

* * *

Porthos watched Aramis run an oiled cloth along the barrel of a musket. It was the last one. Aramis had already cleaned the others with confident, steady hands that moved with a surety born of a lifetime of performing that very task.

Porthos had set himself to tending the blades that lined the wall, making sure each was sharp and solid, ready for battle if needed. But it was an easy task, as familiar to him as a musket was to Aramis. So while his hands had worked, his eyes had studied his companion.

As the hours had worn on, the tension in Aramis' shoulders had eased away to almost nothing. The charged silence between them had softened to something more companionable. Aramis had barely spoken but there still seemed to be a lingering annoyance in his voice when he did. However if he was annoyed with Porthos or something else it was impossible to determine.

Porthos set aside the freshly sharpened sword and reached for the next one, watching Aramis continue his steady work.

Aramis seemed calm, almost relaxed even.

Porthos decided the conditions were steady enough to take a risk.

"You knew Tristan well? When he was a Musketeer?" he asked casually, with a lightness to his voice that he hoped would set Aramis at ease.

"He's still a Musketeer," Aramis corrected immediately, but his tone wasn't hard or angry. He shifted on the bench and adjusted his hold on the musket he was tending. "And yes," he went on, mouth curling into a slight grin, "I knew him well."

"How did he get injured?"

Aramis didn't look up from his work but answered anyway.

"He and several other Musketeers, myself included, were tasked with retrieving stolen gunpowder. The thieves had taken it to Calais and were intending to smuggle it away on a ship. Two of our men, Pascal and Maurice, were killed in the ensuing altercation. Tristan was gravely wounded. We succeeded in the end and retrieved the gunpowder, but at a cost."

Porthos blew out a slow breath, conjuring imagined visions of the battle in his mind.

"Tristan survived, but his lung, as he said, was damaged. He struggles to draw proper breaths even now, years later," Aramis rested the musket across his lap and looked up to meet Porthos' gaze. "He would have stayed on though, I think, if Marie had let him."

"Marie?" Porthos wondered.

"His wife," Aramis explained. "He's a daughter too – little Colette."

"The reckless, wild one with no hint of caution," Porthos remembered with a grin. He was pleased when Aramis chuckled.

"Yes, I believe he blames me for being a bad influence."

Porthos answered with a chuckle of his own. He had no problem believing Aramis had, indeed, been a terrible inspiration in that regard.

"I wish he'd stayed, sometimes." Aramis surprised him by going on, though his attention went back to his task with the musket.

"So you were close, then?" he guessed, hoping to turn Aramis' thoughts to happier memories.

Aramis' smile now was small, but warm.

"Very. Each of them, the others Treville had chosen, taught and trained me in their own ways, but Tristan most of all. Besides Treville at least."

"With muskets?" Porthos theorized, given what Tristan had revealed earlier.

Aramis smirked, eyes lighting up with pride as he glanced up.

"As if I needed help with such a thing," he boasted. But then his expression softened. "No, Tristan taught me something much more valuable."

Porthos studied him, waiting.

"He taught me what true brotherhood means…" Here, Aramis trailed off, eyes fading as his mind drifted from the moment. Porthos frowned in concern when Aramis' brow furrowed and his mouth curled downward.

Porthos knew exactly what he was thinking of now.

Marsac and a brotherhood betrayed.

Desperate to stop that train of thought, Porthos spoke up, a bit too loudly and too brightly.

"Well that explains some things," he smiled.

It took a moment, but Aramis' gaze refocused on him, brow cocked curiously.

"Someone as good at that as you? Had to learn it somewhere," he finished warmly.

Aramis blinked in shock, surprised, it appeared, by the words.

"You teach that lesson to everyone within these walls," Porthos went on sincerely. "You taught it to me from the day we met and no matter how you doubt it now, I think you still believe in it. I know I do."

Aramis stared at him, eyes narrowed and intense as he studied Porthos. He imagined he could feel that keen gaze seeing through to his very soul, judging his sincerity. Whatever Aramis saw, he didn't seem to know what to do with it, because he cut his gaze away and tension returned to his shoulders.

When he looked back at Porthos, there was an easy, false smile on his face. Porthos was growing to hate that smile. The difference between it and the smiles he remembered from before Savoy were small, but they were there. He saw them clearly and did not know why no one else seemed to.

It was in the eyes.

Before Savoy, when Aramis smiled – whether it be an easy one, a bright and cheerful one, mocking, or sarcastic – you could see it in his  _eyes_  as clearly as you could in his mouth. But now, though his lips curled upward, his eyes did not match.

"Meal time is upon us," Aramis announced. "I'm finished here, what about you?"

Porthos nodded and returned the sword in his hands to the rest. He watched Aramis replace the musket and together they left the armory and walked the short distance to the refectory.

He was not surprised when Aramis greeted Serge with a wide smile and cheerful words. He was even less surprised when the few Musketeers who had returned to eat smiled in response and responded merrily to Aramis' bright demeanor.

He reckoned, as he and Aramis took seats at the table with the others, that he was the only one who noticed that there was no smile in Aramis' eyes. He was likely the only one who saw the tension in his shoulders or the weariness hidden behind the laughter. The others seemed to bask in Aramis' good humor, embracing it.

Porthos supposed he was the only one who found it worrying.

* * *

Aramis rubbed a hand up through his hair, startled, even after two weeks, to find it so short. He shook off the momentary surprise and returned his hat to its place, tugging it a bit lower over his eyes to block the sun as he followed Porthos out into the yard.

The headache was a near constant thing, had been since he woke in that inn a fortnight ago. It had dulled in intensity – though at times it crested and threatened to send him to his knees – but was almost always there. He hoped to distract himself from it by focusing wholly on something else.

"We've finished with the armory," Porthos commented idly as he braced his hands on his hips and leaned back to stretch his back, blinking up at the midday sun. "Suppose that means we've the rest of the day off?"

"I'm sure the captain won't mind at all," Aramis replied with a grin. "He'd likely invite you to his office to put your feet up and have some of his finest wine."

Porthos sent him a sideways glare that bore absolutely no heat.

"What do  _you_  suggest, then?"

Aramis tipped his head towards the infirmary.

"Henri has agreed to tutor me in battle medicine. I intend to spend the afternoon under his instruction."

Porthos cocked his head curiously.

"Battle medicine?"

Aramis reached up to tug his hat off, threading his hand through his hair. His mind threatened to conjure up the memory of Remy, dying silently as Aramis could only watch. Of Michel, gasping and clinging to him, begging for help as he died. His hand twitched down to rest on the stock of the pistol he kept clipped at his hip while the other hand fitted his hat back onto his head.

"A valuable skill," he managed to explain, though his voice was tight and too strained for him to have hope it had gone unnoticed.

He felt Porthos' dark gaze settle on him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet it.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed quietly, his voice impossibly gentle, as if Aramis were a frightened colt in need of soothing, "I suppose it is."

Aramis felt his eyes drawn to meet the larger man's despite his fervent wish  _not_ to. He was dreading the warmth he would see there, the promise, the steady strength. He dreaded it because he knew it couldn't be trusted. Even worse was the heartfelt sincerity since he couldn't figure out how Porthos was managing to fake that.

And he  _was_  – faking it, that is. He had to be.

Brotherhood was nothing but an empty promise, after all. Porthos had said Aramis taught the lesson of brotherhood to every Musketeer, that he had taught it to Porthos. But Aramis had learned a greater lesson in that cursed snow-covered forest. Marsac had taught it well. Brotherhood was fleeting.

And yet, despite it all, Aramis couldn't bring to life the words he knew would finally drive Porthos away. All of the familiarity, the inherent comfort, that sense of  _home_ , that he had felt in the other Musketeer's presence before Savoy was still there. It lingered, just below the mistrust and wariness that ruled Aramis' world now.

He found himself greedy for Porthos' presence, even as he fought the urge to reject it completely, to protect himself from the betrayal that was sure to come.

For now, though, with Porthos' kind and warm gaze on his, the greed won out.

"I was going to get dinner at The Wren," he commented, and saw the curiosity spark in the other man's gaze. "It'll likely be late, but if you're willing…"

"I'll meet you there," Porthos promised immediately.

Aramis nodded and tore his gaze away, making for the infirmary without another word. He would regret it. He was sure of it. Porthos, no matter how sincere he seemed, would be like Marsac in the end. He would leave. Just as Tristan had. And now Treville, who was there in body but had abandoned him all the same.

They all left, in the end. It was only a matter of  _when_  and how much devastation they would leave in their wake.

* * *

Porthos had been absolutely certain Aramis would not come. He had been convinced of it right up to the moment the marksman pushed through the door and started searching the tavern with his gaze.

Porthos shifted in his seat, lifting his chin in greeting when Aramis saw him.

The marksman looked briefly surprised that Porthos had kept his promise, but then made his way towards him and slid into the seat across the table.

"They've meat or stew tonight," Porthos announced as Aramis removed his hat and rested it on the table in front of him. The marksman braced an elbow on the table and leaned to card a hand through his hair, pausing briefly to massage the side of his head just above the scar.

A serving girl appeared next to them. Though 'girl' seemed a misleading description. She was tall and willowy and obviously of a ready and willing age.

"Wine, Aramis?" she offered in a sultry, melodic voice.

Aramis shifted, glancing up at her. Porthos waited for the seductive smile, the telling glint in the marksman's eyes. Aramis' reputation always seemed to precede him. No matter what tavern they'd gone to before Savoy, he'd always been greeted in such a fashion by at least one woman, sometimes more.

But tonight Aramis just smiled wearily and shook his head.

"Something to eat then?" she suggested, her eyes drifting over him with unrestrained anticipation and unabashed appreciation.

"Nothing tonight, Sophie, save perhaps a bit of bread."

Porthos narrowed his gaze, studying Aramis a little closer. He could see it now that he was looking. The slight squinting of his eyes, the weary posture, the lack of appetite, the way he was perhaps a shade too pale – it all pointed to the same affliction that had plagued Aramis for the past two weeks.

Headache.

"Anything else,  _mon chéri?"_  she pressed with a sensual purr and a suggestive curve of her lips.

Aramis hesitated, either considering her offer or trying to figure out how best to turn her down. The fact that he hesitated at all told Porthos that Sophie would likely be finding someone else to warm her bed that night.

They all looked to the door when it burst open, heralding the arrival of a group of Red Guards. Aramis had taken a seat that put his back to the wall – Porthos had left it for him on purpose – and only had to slightly turn his head. But it was enough. Porthos saw the exact moment Sophie saw the scar.

Her eyes widened and her hand drifted to lightly cover her mouth.

" _Mon Dieu_ , my poor Aramis," Sophie gasped, her slender fingers reaching towards the wound. Or perhaps she only meant to brush her fingers through his hair. They would never know because Aramis never let her get that far. In a move so lightning fast Porthos was hardly able to track it, Aramis' hand caught her wrist, halting her searching touch before it ever reached his head.

She gasped again, startled pain flashing through her gaze.

"Aramis," Porthos rumbled lowly.

It had been a defensive,  _instinctive_ , move and for a moment Porthos feared he'd have to forcefully remove Aramis' grip from her. But then, the marksman's eyes were widening and he released her as if the touch burned.

"My apologies," Aramis murmured, fixing his wide, doe eyes on hers. " _Pardonne-moi, ma chérie."_

Sophie rubbed at her wrist but Porthos watched her soften under the weight of Aramis' gaze. When Aramis held out his hand, she slid hers into it. Then she was blushing and smiling as Aramis tenderly pressed his lips to her wrist where the marks left by his fingers were still fading.

"How can I make it up to you?" he practically purred.

She smiled a bit wider and turned her hand in his, grasping his fingers and pulling him from his chair.

Aramis shot him an apologetic glance as he let himself be led back towards the store room. Porthos responded with a wave of his hand. He didn't mind. It was good to see Aramis back at it, honestly. Though he was vaguely concerned the only reason the marksman had agreed was out of guilt for grabbing her so roughly. It was too late for Porthos to do anything about that now, though he doubted he could have done anything at all.

Porthos watched the store room door close behind them and then waved at another girl to get her attention. A few moments later he had a bottle of wine and a promise of some meat, bread, and cheese. While he waited and sipped his wine, Porthos studied the other patrons – a habit from his days in the Court. In the past he would be searching for a mark, now he was assessing for possible threats. From a thief to a soldier. Someone should write that story, he mused with a chuckle.

His gaze settled for a bit on the table of Red Guards. He hadn't been a Musketeer long enough to know many of the cardinal's men. In fact, he only knew one or two by name. What he  _did_  know, was he'd had fewer racial slurs thrown at him when he was a  _thief_  than he did whenever the Guard were around. Aramis, he knew, fared only a little better. Looking Spanish when most took issue with Spain was nearly as horrible an offense as being born with skin as dark as Porthos'… Nearly.

Glaring at them for an extra moment just for the sake of it, Porthos finally forced his gaze to move on. The tavern was full, only one or two tables were left open and those looked to have only been recently vacated. There was a card game near the back that drew his attention and beyond that a solitary figure not even bothering with a glass and instead swallowing his wine straight from the bottle.

Porthos shifted his attention back to the card game, wondering if he had enough coin to get a seat at the table. Only the arrival of his dinner drew his attention away from them and back to his own table.

Once he was finished, he glanced back to the store room.

The door was still firmly closed.

He looked to the card game again and motioned for the nearest serving girl.

"Keep my table. My friend'll be back in a bit and he's not eaten."

She nodded and Porthos stood, making his way over to the game. As his luck would have it, another man was bowing out, having lost all his coin, and Porthos was allowed the vacated seat without much convincing.

He was deep into the third hand when Aramis finally emerged from the store room. Sophie, looking flushed, sauntered out ahead of him, working to pin her hair back into place. Aramis, for his part was stuffing his shirt back into his breeches and had his doublet cast over one shoulder. He looked a bit more relaxed than he had before and Porthos was suddenly grateful for Sophie's intervention.

Aramis looked briefly confused when he got to their table and Porthos was gone, but his gaze rose unerringly to the card game, flashing Porthos a knowing grin and lightly rolling his eyes.

Porthos grinned back and refocused on his task. The king he had hidden up his sleeve burned at his skin, but he wasn't ready to risk it just yet. He had to wait until he had just the right hand.

Movement at the Red Guard table caught his eye and he watched a tall, black-haired man with light skin and pale eyes make his way towards Aramis. Frowning, Porthos watched Aramis notice him and immediately rise.

The two came toe-to-toe, hissing at each other too lowly for Porthos to hear over the din of the rest of the tavern patrons. And then, just as it seemed they would come to blows and Porthos prepared to cast down his cards and vault from the table, the two of them went still.

And then they grinned.

And then they  _hugged_.

Porthos watched, slack jawed, as the Red Guard gripped the back of Aramis' neck and then urged him back into his chair. Then the Red Guard sat down with him.

Porthos blinked, hardly believing his eyes.

He recognized the Red Guard now as the one Aramis had lied to about those horses just before Savoy. He'd sent him to Chartres, something about pigs and shit, he'd said.

"Hey," a gruff voice drew Porthos' attention back to the game, "you in or out?"

"Yeah. Raise," Porthos distractedly tossed a few more coins to the center of the table.

He glanced back at Aramis and watched him roll his eyes and smile at something the Red Guard said.

"HEY!" The same gruff voice was punctuated by a hand smacking on the table, drawing Porthos' wandering attention back one more. "Show your cards."

Porthos did, frowning when he realized he'd lost…badly.

"Not even sporting," the gruff man grumbled.

"I'm out," Porthos decided, too curious about this Red Guard to pay attention to a card game.

He pushed his chair back and stood, dodging backwards to avoid running into a serving girl bearing a tray full of food. His thigh banged against the table in the corner, sending the silverware rattling and the wine bottle wavering.

"Oi," he turned, settling a firm hand on the table to steady it. "Sorry for that," he offered to the table's sole occupant.

An icy blue gaze shifted up to regard him from beneath a deeply furrowed brow and a bent head. The stranger was gripping at something at his neck with one hand and the other had reached out to rescue the bottle of wine.

"All good?" Porthos asked, glancing around to make sure he hadn't knocked the man's food to the ground or something like that. But it seemed the man didn't have any food; just the wine and unused silverware.

The mop of straight brown hair dipped slightly, and then the man returned his focus to his wine.

Shaking his head at his own clumsiness, Porthos turned away, heading back for Aramis.

"…shit next time, just you wait for it," the Red Guard was saying.

Aramis looked decidedly unconcerned about whatever threat had just been delivered and glanced up at Porthos.

"Porthos," he greeted with that same easy smile that didn't touch his eyes, "welcome back."

"Who's this?" the Red Guard asked curiously.

"You remember Porthos," Aramis replied. "He was with me when I sent you shit hunting."

"Ah," the Red Guard sat back, looking enlightened, "I remember now. Your pet half-breed Treville fished out of the gutter."

Porthos barely even had a chance to process what had been said before Aramis was reacting.

The marksman leaned forward in a flash, taking a fistfull of the Red Guard's doublet and pulling him halfway across the table. The friendly expression he'd worn moments ago had been replaced by simmering fury.

"I allow you certain freedoms I do not afford your comrades because of our history. But speak of him like that again and I'll make you regret it," Aramis warned in a low, chilling voice.

Porthos wasn't sure who was more shocked – himself or the Guard.

The captive man blinked in surprise and then inclined his head slightly in acquiescence. Aramis released him with a slight shove and the other man took a moment to dramatically straighten his doublet as he sat back.

"Now, now, Aramis," the Red Guard soothed with a sarcastic grin, "don't let that filthy blood of yours get too hot. I only meant he's fitting company for a Spanish mongrel like you."

Porthos looked back and forth between them, half expecting Aramis to lunge across the table and start a brawl. He was less surprised than he should have been when Aramis' stern expression melted into a twisting smirk and an eye roll. He'd never once seen Aramis react to the slurs thrown his way. Apparently only Porthos warranted defending in the marksman's eyes.

"Fitting enough for your sister, wasn't I?" Aramis shot back with a wicked grin. Then, with an arch of his brow, " _and_ your mother."

Porthos tensed, ready to intervene when the Red Guard would undoubtedly lash out.

But instead, the Guard threw his head back and laughed. Then, still chuckling, he turned to Porthos and held out his hand.

"Marc Defrain," he introduced himself. "My apologies for my earlier words."

Porthos shook his hand warily.

"Marc and I served in the infantry together," Aramis explained. "Back before I was commissioned by Treville and he sold his soul to the cardinal."

"You're just jealous we aren't as restricted as you lot who live with your noses in the air and a stick up your ass," Defrain shot back.

"Right," Aramis challenged with a sarcastic huff, "those inconvenient things like  _honor_  and  _duty_  and, I don't know,  _common decency_. How nice it must be to live unshackled by such things."

Defrain made a sound of offense, dramatically pressing his hand to his heart and Porthos was forced to hide his grin behind his cup of wine. Defrain glanced at Porthos and smiled slyly.

"Annoying isn't he? With all his morals?"

Porthos saw Aramis roll his eyes, but he didn't look the least bit offended. Porthos felt the need to speak in his friend's defense anyway.

"Inspiring, I'd say." Then he casually took another drink of wine.

Aramis' gaze snapped around to his, wide and surprised and perhaps also a bit…touched.

Defrain chuckled and shook his head.

"You've infected another one, Aramis," he said.

All three of them glanced up when a man stumbled past their table, their soldier's instincts insisting they stay tuned to their surroundings. It was the man from the back corner, Porthos realized, making his way towards the door with his wine bottle in one hand and his sword belt in the other. If the sway in his step was anything to go by, he'd probably dipped into more than just that one bottle.

But the moment passed and Defrain leaned forward to brace an elbow on the table, waving a vague finger in Aramis' direction.

"The new look's a dramatic one. Sophie didn't seem to mind terribly much, though."

Aramis shrugged a shoulder and offered a roguish smirk.

"If the woman is worried about your hair, then you're either doing something wrong or very badly."

Porthos grinned at the same time Defrain did. But then the Red Guard sobered, eyes flitting over every inch of Aramis' face, searching for something.

"Stop that," Aramis huffed, leaning forward and turning his head. "Have your look and be done with it."

Porthos watched Defrain's jaw clench as he leaned forward and took in the scar, a surprising amount of worry flashing through his pale blue gaze. But just as quickly, he cleared his throat and let out a low whistle, sitting back in his chair.

"Used up one of your nine lives with this one, didn't you, _gato_."

Aramis glared but it lacked any real heat behind it.

"I told you to stop calling me that."

"What's it mean?" Porthos asked curiously.

Defrain smirked.

"Cat," he answered, "in Aramis' mother tongue."

Porthos frowned. That was the second time today he'd heard someone compare Aramis to a cat.

"He thinks he's clever," Aramis said, his tone suggesting he believed the opposite.

"I  _am_  clever," Defrain defended with a grin, though it wavered a bit as he met Aramis' gaze. "Have they allowed you back to duty?"

" _Yes_ ," Aramis snapped. "Would you stop worrying before your dogs over there start thinking you've got a heart still beating in there." He thumped Defrain on the chest and smirked. "We both know such a thing goes against the Red Guard standards."

"Now who thinks they're clever?" Defrain shot back, pushing away from the table. He glanced over his shoulder only to see what Porthos, and likely Aramis, already knew. The table of Red Guards was empty; they'd slipped outside a few moments prior. "Bloody hell, where've they gone?"

"Lose somethin'?" Porthos teased.

"Red Guards," Aramis shook his head mockingly and reached for his hat. "So easily they wander off if not properly fed, watered, and tethered. You've been lax in your duties, Marc."

Then he glanced at Porthos as Defrain stomped to his table to retrieve his cloak and hat.

"Ready?"

Porthos wasn't, but he nodded anyway when he remembered Aramis had been suffering a headache. His time with Sophie seemed to have tempered it, but he still hadn't bothered trying to eat and his eyes bore tight lines of pain around them.

So they both stood and moved to the door. Aramis stepped out into the night first and before Porthos could follow, a hand caught his elbow. He turned back to see Defrain crowding in close to him, red cloak around his shoulders and hat in hand. Porthos eyed him warily and waited.

"What happened out there?" the Red Guard asked bluntly. "We were told it was a Spanish raiding party and that Aramis alone survived."

"That's about the measure of it," Porthos replied, starting for the door again, but Defrain held him back.

"I've known him a long time," Defrain explained. "I just want to know if he's alright."

Porthos arched a brow.

"If you've known him a long time, you should know the answer to that."

Defrain deflated a little and Porthos wondered if he had seen the falseness of Aramis' many smiles as clearly as Porthos had.

"He's surviving," Porthos took pity on him, "as best he can for now."

Defrain sighed.

"He always has," the Guard replied.

Porthos remembered Treville saying something similar back when Aramis' fate had been uncertain. He wondered, now, just what sort of life Aramis had led before now to have earned such a reputation.

A jeering laugh had them both glancing at the door. Forgetting Defrain, Porthos pushed his way out into the night. He growled in fury and charged forward when he saw Aramis, pistols drawn, facing off with four Red Guards.

A curse rose up behind him and then Defrain was shoving past him.

"What the hell is going on?" Defrain snapped, pushing his way past his men and standing between them and Aramis. Porthos barged past to take his place at Aramis' side.

"Calm yourself, Marc," Aramis spoke up. "We were just having a friendly chat."

"I've seen your kind of friendly chat," Marc replied, glancing warily at the pistols Aramis had not lowered.

"They started it," the marksman defended. Then, with a sly smirk, "I was merely intending to finish it."

"With a pistol?" Porthos wondered doubtfully.

"If necessary," Aramis answered.

" _I'm_  finishing it," Defrain snapped. "Go, all of you."

He shoved at his nearest man and soon had them all grumbling their way down the street. He turned back on Aramis with a glower.

"Must you  _always_?" he challenged in frustration.

"With them? Yes."

"What did they do this time to offend your delicate sensibilities? Cough too loudly?"

"Oh stop acting so righteous," Aramis shot back. "You need only to throw a stone and you would hit a Red Guard proving himself worthy of my fury. You  _know_  what kind of men they are."

Defrain bristled but didn't make a move, not with Aramis still brandishing twin pistols. Porthos shifted uncomfortably, wondering if the situation would still descend to violence.

"You chose your side a long time ago, Marc," Aramis pointed out firmly, "and I chose mine. Don't act as if this still comes as a surprise after all this time."

The Red Guard drew in a breath and then let it out. He shook his head and muttered something too low for them to hear before storming after his men. Porthos watched him go, a bit taken aback by the abrupt shift between the two supposed friends.

"Don't mind him," Aramis spoke up, finally lowering the pistols and hooking them onto his belt. "He hates it that I'm right."

Then Aramis turned and crouched down next to something on the ground. It was then that Porthos noticed the sprawled figure in the shadows.

"The Guards said something that apparently offended his honor," Aramis explained as he grabbed the man's arm and hauled him up. Porthos watched a pair of icy blue eyes shift from Aramis to Porthos then back. It was the same drunk whose table Porthos had bumped into earlier. "He had only just drawn on them when I came out, going on about 'honor' and 'satisfaction' and things of the like."

Aramis tilted his head towards the sword laying on the ground. Porthos leaned to pick it up and then found the scabbard abandoned a few paces away.

"Quite a sight you made, my friend," Aramis spoke to the stranger as he steadied him. "Wine bottle in one hand, sword in the other – might have been fearsome if not for the way you swayed as if aboard a ship."

Porthos slid the sword back into its covering and wrapped the attached belt around it, wandering back over to Aramis and the stranger.

"I had it well in hand," the man challenged in a quiet, unconcerned tone. "Until you interfered."

"Until I saved your life, you mean," Aramis replied, but there was no humor in his voice. He just sounded annoyed.

The man shifted his grip on the wine bottle in his hand and glowered darkly.

"Oh good," Aramis chirped sarcastically, "you saved the wine. Glad to see you've got your priorities straight."

Porthos held the sword out to the man and it was snatched immediately from his hand. He watched the stranger wobble as he tried to step away from them, but he stubbornly kept his feet.

"You need help gettin' somewhere?" Porthos offered.

The man just continued away from them without looking back.

"Yes, you're most welcome. Any time!" Aramis called after him with a shake of his head.

"Should we follow him?"

"Why should we?" Aramis replied, looking cross.

"Because he's obviously drunk off his ass and can barely walk. Not to mention he tried to duel four Red Guards –  _at once_."

"A bed of his own making," Aramis replied cynically. "Sometimes a man needs to pay the reckoning for his own actions and sort out his demons himself."

Porthos blinked, taken aback by the sharp words. He stood frozen for a moment, even as Aramis stalked away in the direction of the Garrison. Shaking his head in confusion at the gloomy shift in his friend's mood, Porthos jogged after him.

"Did you see that sword?" Porthos whistled lowly, hoping to lighten the moment. "I've seen less expensive weaponry on nobles."

Aramis didn't reply, just shot him a quelling glare and kept on walking.

Porthos fell silent after that, but kept pace with him step for step.

* * *

Aramis didn't know what darkness had swept through him, turning his mood sour in the space of a breath. Of course they should have made sure the drunk stranger got home; it was the only decent thing to do. Instead, they'd let him stagger off down the street to likely end up sleeping in a gutter…or worse. All because Aramis had swung from calm to furious in a moment.

His moods had done that since Savoy – shifting drunkenly from one emotion to another. He couldn't explain it. He definitely couldn't control it. It was all he could do to keep up with it.

Such a dour disposition did not bode well for restful sleep, though he hadn't truly had a 'restful' night in weeks. Even after Porthos had slipped into his room yesterday and passed out against the door, Aramis hadn't been able to get back to sleep.

Sleep had become somewhat of an enemy; a nemesis of sorts.

But he knew he could not avoid it tonight. The headache that had plagued him through the day left him feeling drained. He needed rest. His body would demand it no matter what Aramis had to say about it. Sleep would bring the dreams, the memories. It was bad enough he saw it all in daylight, triggered through the day by one thing or another. At least then he could come out of it, return to the present.

But there was no reprieve in the darkness of the night. The ghosts seemed to scream the loudest then.

He woke and he was haunted.

He slept and he dreamed.

There was no escaping Savoy.

He was struck, then, with a sudden urge to ask Porthos to stay with him. The silence was not so oppressive when the larger man was around. His presence alone seemed to sooth Aramis' ravaged and weary soul.

And, above all, he did not want to be alone.

As they strode through the Garrison gate, Aramis glanced at Porthos, even opened his mouth to put words to the request. But the soft candle light illuminating the window of Treville's office stayed his tongue.

What was it Treville had told him after Medina? When his mind and soul had been just as troubled and wounded as they were now, though in a different way?

" _In your darkest moments, when you feel the weakest, it falls to_ _ **you**_ _to remember your strength. I cannot fight these battles for you, Aramis. You must win this war alone."_

Aramis looked down at his boots as he took to the stairs. He heard Porthos following closely behind.

Alone.

After Medina, he had been in a dark, dangerous place. Treville had done what he could, but in the end, it had been up to Aramis to set himself right again.

Perhaps this was not so different. Perhaps, this too, he had to do alone.

Even with that conviction ringing in his head, it took him up until he was standing before his own door to turn and block Porthos' way.

The large man shot him a confused look, opening his mouth to say something.

"I don't want you in here," Aramis insisted bluntly, even though his heart raged against the claim.

 _Don't go_ , came the treacherous whisper in his mind.

"I want to be alone."

_Please stay._

The memory of those lonely days amongst the dead haunted him and left him never wanting to be alone again. Part of him silently pleaded for Porthos to challenge him, to force his way into the room and refused to be moved.

Another part felt furiously vindicated when Porthos took a step back and seemed to bow to his wishes. He had been right about Porthos, then. He would abandon him just as Marsac had. It was as satisfying and infuriating as it was devastating.

He reached for his door, ready to shut Porthos out, but froze when the larger man spoke.

"No you don't," Porthos challenged quietly, softly even. "I don't think you want that at all. In fact, I think every part of you wants the opposite."

Aramis couldn't move, could barely breathe. He remained, completely frozen, his back to Porthos as the other man continued.

"But I'm not your keeper, Aramis. You don't need one. You don't  _need_  me to hover over you. You don't  _need_  me to play nursemaid, you said so yourself."

Porthos was rejecting him at last, was withdrawing the steady support Aramis had repeatedly pushed away. The sudden feeling of loss left him reeling. He almost didn't realize Porthos wasn't finished, that he'd dropped his voice even lower, pitched his words even warmer.

"But I am, and will always be, your brother, Aramis. I'm here, if you want me to be. I'm  _here_ , Aramis, and I'm not goin' anywhere."

Aramis clenched his eyes closed at the steadfast  _promise_  in those words, the vow.

 _I'm here_.

How many times had Porthos said that to him since the inn in Savoy? How many times had he stood in the face of Aramis' rejection or terror or panic and said those two simple words?

 _I'm here_.

He wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that promise so badly it  _hurt_. But the memory of Marsac's back as he walked away, as he left him to die, hurt far worse. Porthos was here now, but would he remain when the worst happened? Would he stay steadfast or would he flee as Marsac had?

Aramis couldn't take the risk, not ever again.

"I don't want you to be," he stated firmly. He turned, pressing his back to his door and meeting Porthos' gaze. "I want you to go."

"Aramis…" Porthos shook his head, denying Aramis' words.

"Just  _stop_ ," Aramis demanded. "You keep saying you're 'here', but I don't  _want you_." He watched Porthos flinch. "I don't want you," he said again. "Just leave me alone."

Porthos, for being such a beast of a man, tended to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Aramis could quite clearly see the pain his words inflicted. Steeling himself, Aramis drew in a breath to deliver the final blow.

"We were never friends Porthos, never brothers. You were nothing but a pathetic, lonely man I took pity on because no one else would bother with someone like  _you_."

Porthos flinched, eyes cutting away and down to study the wooden planks beneath their feet.

Aramis was sure that was it, that he'd succeeded. He was certain Porthos would walk away now and never look back.

But instead, Porthos drew in a slow, shaking breath and raised his eyes to meet Aramis' again.

"That's not true," he challenged with a telling sheen of moisture in his eyes. "I know in my heart it's not true and so do you."

"It is," Aramis insisted.

Porthos shook his head sadly, expelling another trembling breath.

"It's not," he argued. "I'll not be so easily driven away, Aramis. No matter what you say or what you do. No matter what masks you wear or what lies you tell, I'll not abandon you."

Aramis nearly scoffed.  _Easy?_  No part of this was  _easy_. He wasn't a cruel man, but he had a ruthless streak that he usually kept carefully in check, only to be used when needed. It made him a wild fury in the heat of battle and when channeled into his tongue, it made his words as venomous and lethal as the bite of a snake. It usually took a lot for him to direct such ruthless fury at another living being.

But even in the midst of Aramis' biting words, the other Musketeer was standing as tall and firm as an oak.

"What's wrong with you?" Aramis asked lowly. "How can you just stand there and  _take_  this? How are you not  _running_  in the other direction?"

Porthos looked so world-weary and beaten down in that moment that his sad smile cut straight to Aramis' heart.

"I've taken a lot worse," he said with a sigh, "from a lot crueler than you for a lot less reason."

Aramis hated himself then for being so selfish as to add to a lifetime of hurt and mistreatment. He had never, in all his life, unleashed that sort of ignorant hatred on someone else. He was under no illusions. He knew that the bigotry he'd faced for his Spanish blood had been nowhere near the realm of what Porthos had faced and survived. But even so, he knew what it was to be mistreated for nothing more than the way he looked.

He knew and he had dared say those words anyway.

His mother would be ashamed of him.

With that weight bearing down on his already heavily burdened shoulders, Aramis pushed his door open and backed into the room, refusing to meet Porthos' gaze.

"Aramis," Porthos pleaded quietly, "don't do this."

Aramis drew in a breath and raised his eyes. He held Porthos' gaze.

"I'm sorry," he offered sincerely. And he was. Sorry for his cruel words. Sorry for not being brave enough or strong enough to trust Porthos' promises. Sorry for being such a burden.

Porthos didn't look away until Aramis closed the door between them.

He engaged the lock, knowing the sound would be heard on the other side.

For a long moment he stared at the door, half anticipating Porthos to try and break it down. Instead, there was a slight shuffling outside and then Porthos' voice reached him through the wood.

"I forgive you," the other Musketeer stated quietly. "If you need me, you know where I am."

Then Porthos walked away.

Aramis didn't know why, now that he'd gotten what he'd fought so hard for, he felt nothing but empty and drained.

It was what he wanted, what he needed.

He had to learn to fight these battles alone.

But he felt Porthos' absence so keenly it was a physically painful thing.

Desperate for distraction, he moved to the trunk at the foot of his bed and pulled it open. He dug through it until he found what he was searching for.

He sat back onto his heels and let the old, worn cross dangle from his fingers by its cord as he studied it.

He'd carved it himself years ago, a few weeks after coming to live with his father. He'd needed the comfort then. He'd missed his mother. He'd missed the friends he'd grown up with. He'd even missed his hateful brother and sister who had done nothing but despise him since the day he was born. They, at least, had been familiar.

Nothing in his father's world had been familiar. He'd been under the care – if it could even be called that – of a man who was a stranger. He'd been thrust into a world of formal speech and high propriety when he was used to street slang and running wild. Even his name had been taken from him, replaced with another that had always felt foreign, even after years of use. But the worst change had been the exchange of his mother's fierce love for the harsh cruelty and lies of his father.

He'd clung to this small token for the comfort it gave him, for the way it brought his mother's voice to mind as she recited scripture to him. His father had not been religious, but those six years he'd spent in Julien d'Herblay's house, if nothing else, had cemented Aramis' faith even more deeply.

When he had finally fled a few short months after losing both Isabelle and their unborn child, Aramis had stuffed this cross into the deepest part of his pack and had never drawn it back out.

He hadn't wanted anything to remind him of his father, not even the one thing that had brought him comfort in those long, lonely years.

It was fitting now, with his soul again lost in turmoil due to the cruelty of the world, that he cling to it once more.

He shifted back, pushing himself along the floor until his back hit the wall. Then he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped the worn, frayed leather cord around his hand, clutching the slightly unevenly crafted cross in his palm. He'd never been good at woodwork. His skill lay in fighting with knives, not whittling with them.

He'd always turned to his faith in the darkest moments of his life. He'd always found comfort and guidance in his prayers towards the only loving father he'd ever known. He had never been the strictest in his beliefs, he knew. But there were so many rules and laws in the Catholic faith that he could not reconcile their ideals with a loving God. He chose, instead, to believe in the God his mother had been devoted to. The God who loved without restraint or judgment, who forgave freely and saw all men as equals. The God who heard the prayers of a woman like his mother when most would say she was unworthy. The God who heard the prayers of a man like him who had dispatched more souls to hell than he'd guided to heaven.

That was the God he chose.

That was the God who had never forsaken him.

But would God forgive him now? For leading twenty innocent souls to death? How could such a thing ever be forgiven?

He clenched his hand around the cross, feeling the wood press into his palm.

His God would forgive him as he had forgiven him so many things before. He knew that with sudden surety.

But he could not ask God to forgive him when he was unworthy of such absolution. He would not forgive  _himself_  for his failure and until he could, he did not dare ask the same from God. There was only one thing he could do now.

 _Penance_.

Not a penance to God, but to  _himself_. Then perhaps he would find peace – with himself first and then with God.

He realized then, as he sat in the cold corner of his room with the sounds of Savoy rising in his mind, that perhaps he was already paying it.

Maybe his survival  _was_  his penance.

He would atone for his failure by being the lone survivor, left behind by his brothers to suffer the memories of Savoy. He would find his way to forgiveness by enduring the weight of those memories alone.

He no longer despaired the absence of Porthos. He no longer feared being abandoned and alone. He yearned for it instead.

If he had any hope to find peace, he would  _have to_  do this himself.

He, alone, had failed those twenty lost souls and he, alone, must pay the price for it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 10
> 
> So Aramis got harsh here - he finally got really nasty. He, of course, hated himself for it immediately. And Porthos, of course, knew it wasn't truly Aramis speaking. But still...really low moment there and getting lower with Aramis' penance spiral. What's that they say about rock bottom? Gotta hit it before you can start to climb? If that's not a phrase it should be. Aramis is spiraling down towards rock bottom at a frightening pace here so...there's that. There might have been something else significant this chapter...some passing thing, perhaps a character that hasn't gotten a true introduction yet (and don't worry that wasn't it) I wonder who that could be... :P
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "You've not touched your sword but to put it on your belt since the sparring session," Porthos accused. "Memory sneaks up on you and drags you back there without warning," he went on. "You go pale and start shaking all over and won't come out of it until I call your name. Sometimes saying it quietly is enough; sometimes I have to thunder it like an order."
> 
> "Stop," Aramis snapped, but Porthos ignored him. Now that he'd started he couldn't stop.
> 
> "You get angry for no reason and it frustrates you because you can't control it. You can never relax unless you've a weapon in your hand, and even then you keep your pistols always loaded. And you clean them all the time,even when they've not been fired. You're aware of everything around you, threat or not, and it exhausts you."
> 
> "Stop it," Aramis warned again. Porthos stepped closer and went on.
> 
> "You insist on sleeping in that room even though it does nothing but cause you pain. You've let his betrayal poison everything in your life, and because of what he did you don't know how to trust that I won't betray you, too."
> 
> "Stop." Aramis was getting angrier, but Porthos wouldn't – couldn't – stop now.


	11. Never Leave You All Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Ten: Thimblerig, Lady_Neve, HLN, and issa

 

* * *

_A brother is a friend given to you by God. A friend is a brother your heart chose.  
_ _**Unknown** _

* * *

_May 4, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Garrison, Paris_

* * *

Treville leaned over the railing outside his office, sweeping his gaze over the yard below him.

Tristan was running the cadets through the paces of musket training – loading, firing, and reloading. The ten hopeful soldiers were listening attentively, throwing their absolute focus into perfecting the task.

It had been over a month now since Savoy. Two weeks since Aramis and Porthos had returned to Paris.

In that time, Treville and Tristan had set to work on rebuilding the ranks. They'd had eighteen prospects come to them in the beginning. Six had since been dismissed back to the regiments they'd come from. Two more had already earned their commissions. Then there were three others who had come to him by recommendation from his old friends still serving in the infantry and cavalry.

Five men, so far, to replace twenty-one.

He had spent five years building the regiment to what it had been before Savoy. Five years of carefully watching and choosing only the best to recommend to the king. He would not sacrifice that standard now even if it took him five more years to rebuild them.

The remaining Musketeers had taken a bit of time to adjust to the idea of non-commissioned soldiers within the Garrison. But after a time, they had come to appreciate the extra bodies. None of the cadets could be allowed to carry out a duty alone, but they could accompany a Musketeer for training purposes. It was particularly useful if more than one man was needed. He could send a Musketeer and a cadet instead of two Musketeers.

Over all, the new system seemed to be working.

He watched Tristan call for the cadets to aim their weapons. A moment later the yard exploded with gunfire. Then the men were in rapid movement to reload as quickly and efficiently as they could as Tristan barked instructions and encouragements.

It reminded Treville of the old days. When the regiment had been made of only five men and the Garrison had not yet been built to house them.

How many times had he watched Aramis and Tristan compete with this very task, pushing each other to be faster and faster until both could reload a musket in nothing but a blur of movement? Aramis had never needed  _training_  when it came to muskets per se, not like the men below. The teenage soldier had been more at home with a musket in his hands than anyone Treville had ever met. He hadn't needed instruction, but he _had_  thrived on the competition.

He couldn't remember, now, the last time he'd seen Aramis fire a musket for nothing but the enjoyment of it. He'd spent long hours training over the last two weeks with both Tristan and Porthos by his side, but there had been no playful bets or challenges. Aramis had attacked his time in training with single minded focus.

He'd finally been cleared back to full duty just this morning. Henri had taken Treville aside and confessed the boy had been fit enough a week ago but he'd been hesitant to release him. When pressed, Henri had admitted that while he couldn't precisely pinpoint  _why_  he was so worried about the marksman, he nonetheless was deeply concerned.

The disappointed stare Henri had given him when Treville had replied that Aramis would be fine had been difficult to stomach.

Aramis was  _not_ fine.

Treville knew it. Henri apparently knew it. Porthos  _definitely_  knew it. Tristan hadn't stopped reminding the captain of it nearly every day.

Even Aramis knew it.

Treville was well aware of the fact that the marksman had not practiced his swordplay  _once_  since the dramatic sparring session with Gaston the morning after his return. Not for lack of others asking, either. Aramis always had an excuse ready to avoid crossing blades with anyone. Not even Tristan had been able to coax him into it.

Treville didn't know what was wrong there, but something obviously was.

There was a time when he would have asked. A time when he wouldn't have let it rest until he ferreted out the problem and helped Aramis fix it.

But he couldn't; not anymore. He had given up that privilege. He had given up the right to know what troublesome thoughts were tumbling around in the boy's head.

The shift between he and Aramis, however necessary Treville told himself it was, had been a staggering one. He no longer rolled his eyes at Aramis' clever and unsolicited comments because Aramis no longer offered them. The marksman no longer joined him in the evenings for a glass of wine and trading of reports. They no longer discussed the duty assignments or training regimes for the men. Treville no longer assumed Aramis would lead in his absence from the Garrison and Aramis no longer stepped into the position.

They were respectful, but distant.

Treville felt the loss like a physical thing. But he had been the one to put the distance between them and so he could do nothing but endure and accept it.

It was a relief, now, to know Aramis was returned to full duty, that he wouldn't be spending all day, every day in the Garrison. Seeing him carry on with his cheerful smiles and bright disposition was gutting. He had known Aramis too long not to see right through it to the suffering beneath.

And Aramis  _was_  suffering, in nearly every waking moment.

Treville could barely stomach looking at him now. Seeing him every day, knowing he had  _caused_  this and that his forced distance had only made it worse, had become somewhat of a curse.

Yes, it was a relief to be able to send Aramis out of the Garrison for a few days.

But at the same time he dreaded his absence. Because while bearing witness to his silent suffering was a terrible burden, seeing him each day,  _alive_ , was the only thing that let Treville sleep at night. Knowing that at least Aramis had  _survived_  was the only thing that made the awful truth of Savoy bearable.

How selfish had he become, that he would send Aramis away for the sake of his guilt but then covet his presence for the same reason?

Aramis deserved better.

Thankfully he  _had_ gotten it, just not from Treville.

Porthos had been a godsend.

Whenever Treville saw Aramis lose himself in the moment and had to fight the urge to go to him, Porthos was there. He would draw Aramis back to the present with nothing more than a softly – or firmly if it was needed – spoken word. When Aramis wore his mask of false smiles and empty laughter and Treville longed to strip it away, Porthos was there. He would send Aramis a look that said he was not fooled, that he would not let it pass. He would take the anger Aramis directed at him afterward with steady resilience. When Aramis' mood swung unpredictably from one emotion to the next and Treville wanted to steady him, Porthos was there. He would adjust to whatever mood Aramis had fallen into and remain steady at his side. When Aramis' head pained him and Treville wanted nothing more than to bundle him to bed and soothe him, Porthos was there. He would tug Aramis' hat lower over his eyes to block the sun and shuffle him off to somewhere dim and quiet until it passed.

Porthos had promised him, back in Savoy, that Aramis would never have a more devoted brother.

He had kept that promise faithfully.

Even through Aramis' bouts of raging temper.

Even when Aramis firmly rejected his company.

Porthos remained, steadfast and loyal through it all.

Treville was certain that even if he had not purposefully assigned Porthos to whatever duty he gave Aramis, the large Musketeer would have requested it.

He would be Aramis' salvation in the end, Treville had to believe that. He had to believe Aramis  _would_  come through all of this one day. Porthos would be the key, he had to be.

But it had been two long weeks now and nothing had changed. Despite Porthos' devotion, Aramis was not improving and Treville was left with the lingering doubt that perhaps Porthos, alone, would not be enough.

* * *

Porthos winced as the man before him prodded the gash on his arm.

"It's deep," Aramis mused. "Needs stitching."

"Why?" Porthos growled. "Just bind it."

"Porthos, I've no time to play your nursemaid. There's the matter of your sparring partner still to tend to," Aramis scolded impatiently.

Porthos shifted his gaze over Aramis' shoulder to the unconscious man on another cot, the one he had thrown to the ground a little too roughly after he received the gash. He grimaced in vague guilt and then turned his eyes back to the man who fancied himself a seamstress now.

"Two weeks you've been workin' in here and now you think yourself a physician?" he grumbled, but let Aramis begin his task.

"Don't be ridiculous. There's much I've yet to learn," Aramis replied as he started sewing Porthos' arm with impressive ease. "But I took to needlework quite naturally."

"Who says?" he argued, though he was mostly hoping to just keep Aramis talking. For as much as Aramis chattered meaninglessly around the others, when it was just he and Porthos, Aramis had stopped bothering with the pretense. Porthos never let him get away with it anymore and so Aramis punished him by being reticent and argumentative.

Porthos did his best to keep his own temper in check and not give Aramis any excuse to push him away, any more than he already had at least. His steadfast refusal to be driven away or baited, however, only seemed to annoy Aramis more.

"Henri, for one," Aramis defended sharply. "And I've had no complaints so far."

Porthos grumbled his doubt, but when Aramis flashed a glare up at him, he smiled to show he was only kidding. Aramis only glowered and refocused on his task. Porthos sighed.

"So Henri's cleared you back to full duty," he commented lightly as he watched Aramis work. He had to admit, Aramis  _was_  good at this. His hands were steady and moved as quickly and easily as they would if he'd been doing this for years.

"Yes, I know. I was there," Aramis spat.

"Was only making conversation."

"Don't."

"Come on now," Porthos goaded as tilted his head, deciding to push his luck a bit. It'd likely end up with Aramis angry at him, but real anger was better than the fake smiles he wore around everyone else or the heavy silence he retreated to when they were alone. "You're happy to talk circles around everyone else, why not me?"

Aramis' gaze flashed up to meet his again and he could see the annoyance building in the dark eyes.

"You know why," Aramis replied lowly as he tied off the last stitch and sat back.

"Do I?" Porthos feigned confusion.

Aramis' eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

"Stop it, Porthos."

"Stop what?" Porthos shot back, suddenly angry himself.

Two weeks they'd been doing this dance. For two weeks he had stayed by Aramis' side even as the marksman shoved him away. He'd kept his promise. He hadn't abandoned him and he never would. But he was  _tired_. He was tired of watching Aramis hide behind false smiles and hollow laughter around everyone else only to resolutely suffer in silence when they were alone. He was tired of feeling as if  _he_  was the cruel one for not allowing Aramis his lies. He was tired of feeling as if he were the only one fighting to save Aramis from this.

"Stop refusing to believe your lies?" he challenged. "Stop forcing you to set aside the mask you insist on hiding behind? Stop remaining at your side  _every day_  and pulling you from the memories when they sneak up on you and try to drag you under? Stop being the only one who will be  _honest_  with you? Stop being the only one who  _sees_  you? What  _exactly_  would you like me to stop, Aramis?"

The marksman glared, eyes lit with silent anger and jaw clenched tightly.

"Should I stop being the  _only one_  to believe that  _this,_ " he waved a hand in Aramis' direction, "is not all you're meant for? This life of lies and hidden suffering. This life of mistrusting everything you used to believe in. Is this the life you  _want_ , Aramis? Truly? Do you  _want_  to live like this forever? Do you want to spend the rest of your life hiding from Savoy? If you do," Porthos shook his head sadly, "then you've become something I never thought  _you_  would ever be." Aramis' eyes flashed in warning. "A  _coward_."

Hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him up and spinning him hard into the wall. Porthos grunted at the force behind it but didn't try to break free or fight back. Instead, he met Aramis' furious gaze steadily.

"There you are," he goaded. "Go on,  _hit_ me. Do  _something_ , Aramis. Better this than the lies you tell everyone else. I'd take your anger any day because at least it's  _real_."

Aramis' hands tightened in his shirt and he pressed Porthos more firmly to the wall.

"What are you going to do, Aramis?" Porthos challenged. "Keep hiding? Keep denying the ghosts of twenty dead even as they haunt you?"

"I'm not denying anything," Aramis hissed. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Before Porthos could reply, the door to Henri's office opened.

"Aramis!" he snapped. "This is a room of  _healing_ , not further  _harming_. Let him go."

Aramis' lip curled slightly and Porthos thought he might have heard a growl, but then Aramis was shoving away from him and storming out of the infirmary. Henri might have said something but Porthos didn't hear it as he followed after Aramis.

Aramis retreated to the stables, perhaps planning on using his newly granted freedom to flee on Esmé. Porthos slammed the stable door behind him and stalked down the row of stalls.

"I don't know what I'm talking about?" he challenged as he grabbed Aramis' shoulder and pulled him around to face him. "Do you think me blind or just stupid?"

Aramis just lifted his chin defiantly.

"You've not touched your sword but to put it on your belt since the sparring session," Porthos accused. "Memory sneaks up on you and drags you back there without warning," he went on. "You go pale and start shaking all over and won't come out of it until I call your name. Sometimes saying it quietly is enough; sometimes I have to thunder it like an order."

"Stop," Aramis snapped, but Porthos ignored him. Now that he'd started he couldn't stop.

"You get angry for no reason and it frustrates you because you can't control it. You can never relax unless you've a weapon in your hand, and even then you keep your pistols always loaded. And you clean them  _all the time_ ,even when they've not been fired. You're aware of everything around you, threat or not, and it  _exhausts_ you."

"Stop it," Aramis warned again. Porthos stepped closer and went on.

"You insist on sleeping in that room even though it does nothing but cause you pain. You've let his betrayal poison everything in your life, and because of what  _he_  did you don't know how to trust that I won't betray you, too."

" _Stop_." Aramis was getting angrier, but Porthos wouldn't – couldn't – stop now.

"Worst of all, you insist on doing all of this alone. You lock your door at night to keep me out even though we  _both_  know having someone there calms you when you wake from a nightmare. You hide behind your mask so no one else can see your suffering, and then when I strip that mask away you fall back to anger and silence to keep me just as distant."

"You  _don't_ know what you're talking about!" Aramis accused again, shoving a hand hard against Porthos' chest and then whirling to pace away and put some distance between them. "You have  _no_ idea."

"Where have I been but by your side?" Porthos thundered back, watching as Aramis tore his hat from his head to dig his fingers into his growing hair. "Tell me what it is, after all this time, that I don't know!"

Aramis whirled on him, gesturing wildly with his hat.

"It's my penance, Porthos!" he exploded furiously only to spin away again with a shout of frustrated anger.

Porthos drew back as if he'd been struck.

_What?_

The door behind them opened and Porthos rounded on whoever was daring to interrupt them now, when he was  _finally_  making progress.

One of the cadets – Ed, from a cavalry regiment, who was actually older than both of them and seemed more like a superior than a cadet – blinked at them.

"What?!" Porthos snarled.

"The captain is asking for you both."

Porthos dropped his head back with a sigh.

"Of course he is," he huffed in disbelief.

He pulled his head back and looked to Aramis, who was still facing away from them, but was fitting his hat securely back onto his head. Porthos imagined he could see the defenses rebuilding in Aramis' posture. He knew when Aramis turned that damned empty smile would be on his face again.

He watched Aramis draw in a deep breath, then he spun to face them.

And he smiled.

Porthos wanted to punch him, and then punch Ed for causing it.

"Thank you, Ed," Aramis offered brightly, striding towards them. He passed Porthos with nothing more than a sideways glance and clapped Ed on the shoulder as he passed him.

Porthos threw up his hands in frustration and followed.

* * *

Treville looked back and forth between the two men standing before him.

Porthos was silently fuming, steadfastly staring at some spot over Treville shoulder.

Aramis was standing in a dutiful silence, the picture of the perfect, obedient soldier.  _His_  gaze was fixed on some place over Treville's  _other_  shoulder.

Aramis' attitude was expected; it was how he'd been acting around Treville ever since the familiarity between them had been severed. Porthos, on the other hand, had obviously been upset by something – undoubtedly Aramis. The whole Garrison had heard them shouting at each other in the stable, though it had been impossible to tell what they were saying.

Hopefully this new assignment would give them a chance to sort things out once and for all.

"Here," he held out a sealed letter. "To be delivered to Comte de Beauvais, no reply expected."

Beauvais was a two days' ride out of Paris at best. Delivering this letter would give the two of them twice as much time out of the Garrison. Enough to give everyone a break from the status quo they'd fallen into.

Aramis reached out to take the letter, giving a silent nod of acceptance. Next to him, Porthos tore his eyes from the wall to glance first at Aramis, then the letter, then finally to Treville. Then he nodded as well.

"Good," Treville gave them a sharp nod in return. "Dismissed."

It wasn't until he was watching Aramis walk out of the office that it hit him.

This was the first time he had sent Aramis out of the Garrison since Savoy. A wave of unease rolled through him and forced him from his chair. He paced over to the window and watched Aramis and Porthos descend the steps from his office and cross the yard to the barracks side. They both seemed to be doing their level best not to speak to each other and didn't even seem to share a glance as they disappeared into their separate quarters.

Treville shook his head with a sigh, glancing back when someone came into his office.

"What was all the yelling about?" Tristan asked as he made his way over to join him. "It sounded as if they were about to kill each other."

Treville just shook his head again.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I've sent them to Beauvais. That should give them time to work it out."

"It's been weeks now, Jean," Tristan pointed out. "Do you really think a few days on the road will fix anything?"

"It can't make it worse," Treville replied. "Perhaps getting Aramis away from the others will help. He tries too hard when he's among them."

Tristan hummed his agreement.

"Are you going to tell me now why you won't get involved? Why you are content to stand by and leave this all on Porthos' shoulders?"

"Pairing him with Porthos was  _your_  idea," the captain reminded.

"Only because  _you_  wouldn't do anything. I've tried to speak to him myself but he just talks in circles and changes the subject. I've been out of his confidence too long for him to turn to me now. It should be  _you._ "

"I've told you," Treville glared at him, "there are things you don't know. Things you  _can't_  know."

Tristan held up a hand in surrender and sighed.

For a few moments they stood in silence, looking out the window together. Tristan shifted next to him and turned from the window. He didn't move away though, just hovered at Treville's shoulder.

"I feel as if we've failed him in this, Jean."

Treville lifted his chin and didn't reply. What could he say?

They  _had_  failed him.

It was up to Porthos to make it right.

* * *

Aramis glanced up from where he was saddling Esmé when Porthos slid into Fort's stall and started the same process. They worked in silence until Aramis finished first, leading Esmé out of her stall. He paused in front of Porthos and Fort and turned to meet the other Musketeer's gaze steadily.

"We'll complete this assignment and when we return I'll ask Treville to stop pairing us. Now that I'm returned to full duty it's a waste of resources given the state of things."

Porthos tightened the billet on his saddle and then leaned casually against Fort, his earlier anger seeming to have cooled in the time it took him to pack his things.

"No," he denied simply and then returned to his task.

"No?" Aramis challenged with an arched brow.

"No," Porthos repeated plainly.

"But…"

"You'll not be rid of me that easily, Aramis," Porthos replied as he finished and reached for Fort's reins to lead him out. "I made you a promise."

"I release you from it," Aramis insisted.

Porthos had gotten too close. He'd been paying better attention than Aramis had realized and now he'd seen too much. He needed distance, it was the only way.

"No," Porthos refused again. "I don't release myself."

Then he slid out of the stall and eased Fort past Esmé.

"But…" Aramis sputtered impotently as Porthos walked away, leading Fort out into the yard.

"You comin'?" Porthos called over his shoulder.

Aramis blew out a sharp, annoyed breath and followed.

It had been two weeks since he'd realized survival would be his penance for his failure. Two  _long_  weeks. He barely slept, an anxious hyper-awareness making rest elusive. When he  _did_ , he always woke to nightmares. He ate only because he had to or he risked growing weaker. He had to keep his strength. He had to be ready to fight the phantom enemy that always seemed to hover just on the edge of his consciousness. He had to be ready in case that enemy ever became real.

He found moments of reprieve by visiting whichever of his lovers would have him, but always left before sleep could creep in and claim him. He couldn't risk dreaming with a defenseless woman in the bed with him as he didn't trust his own instincts in those confusing moments between sleep and wakefulness.

Mostly he just soldiered on.

He kept up the charade for the others because they needed it, and for himself because he couldn't take the silence. But Porthos had refused to allow him the lie and when the laughter and smiles fell away and left behind only quiet, the memories crept up on him more and more. So he'd found himself turning to anger to fill the void instead. It was easier than the smiles, likely because it was often real instead of fake. It was easy to be angry at Porthos. Not because of anything Porthos had done – though having someone other than Treville see through him so easily  _was_  infuriating – but because of what everyone else  _hadn't_  done. No one else noticed that his smiles were forced or his cheerful words were lies, or perhaps they just didn't care. Even Tristan let it all pass with nothing but the occasional long, sorrowful look. And Treville…Treville had washed his hands of him.

So Porthos became the target of his anger by simple proximity.

It wasn't fair or even rational, but it got Aramis from one day to the next, and right now that was all he could hope for.

But now Porthos had thrown every piece of Aramis' struggle into the light and dared him to deny it. In his frustration and anger he'd confessed something he hadn't meant to and now he knew Porthos would never let it rest.

Aramis sighed and pulled himself up into Esmé's saddle once they reached the yard. Porthos was already astride Fort, waiting near the gate. Aramis nudged Esmé toward them, frowning at the easy smile fixed on Porthos' face.

Whatever his game was, Aramis knew he wouldn't like it.

It was going to be a long few days.

* * *

Porthos slid a look towards the man riding next to him when he saw Aramis shift his hand from his thigh to the stock of his nearest pistol for the  _third_  time in the last half hour. While Porthos watched, Aramis' gaze swept the countryside around them and his hand tightened around the decorative wood. Then, a moment later, he unclenched his hand from the pistol and returned it to his thigh.

It had been the same sort of thing since they'd left the Garrison. Aramis was wound so tightly Porthos was sure if a rabbit dared cross their path it'd be shot for its daring. It had gotten worse the further into the countryside they got, worse still if they passed through a patch of trees.

It seemed as if he was expecting to come upon some threat around every bend. It was exhausting just to  _watch_  him.

"Bread?" Porthos asked brightly, stretching his hand towards his companion, the proffered bread between his fingers.

Aramis gave him a glance that was both irritated and suspicious and shook his head in refusal.

Porthos shrugged.

"Suit yourself." And then he popped the entire piece of bread into his own mouth, chewing even as he smiled cheerfully.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aramis studying him. There was a slight frown turning down the marksman's lips and a crease had caused a furrow in his brow.

 _Good_. It was working.

After they'd met with Treville, Porthos had returned to his quarters to pack, anger and frustration still burning hotly in his chest. But as he'd thrown his things into his saddle bags, he'd remembered Aramis' heated confession in the stable.

" _It's my penance, Porthos!"_

Penance.

Porthos was not religious, but there had been an old woman in the Court who had been bent on bringing him into the fold in his youth. He knew what penance was and what it meant. He knew what Aramis' confession implied.

That surviving Savoy, living with the burden of it, was something  _deserved_. As if Aramis believed all the suffering he carried now were his due, his atonement for some perceived sin.

It made a tragic kind of sense now that Aramis insisted on suffering alone. He was devout, Treville had said, and was somehow convinced he deserved to bear this weight in silent solitude. Porthos intended to convince him otherwise…somehow. He didn't know what sort of God would demand such a thing from one who had already suffered so much. Surely not the God Aramis was so devoted to.

So he would make Aramis see that.

But first, he had to get Aramis talking again. His confession in the stable had been weeks in coming. It had been building, Porthos suspected, until it exploded without Aramis' permission. Porthos didn't want to wait weeks more for something else to burst past the marksman's tight control.

It was time for a new strategy.

He'd spent the last two weeks refusing to allow Aramis his charade. He'd stripped away his mask of false smiles over and over until Aramis had stopped even attempting it when others weren't around. Now, he would do the opposite.

He would play the same game Aramis seemed to be so fond of. If Aramis wanted to insist that everything was alright, if he wanted to rely on fake smiles and false laughter, then  _fine_.

Porthos would do the same.

He would show Aramis how infuriating it was to  _know_  someone was lying. He would show him how frustrating it was to  _know_  someone was upset but to see them paint on a smile and suffer in silence. He knew, first hand, how quickly such a thing grew maddening. He hoped that giving back a bit of what Aramis had been spreading around these past weeks would goad the marksman into  _reacting_.

He wanted Aramis to get frustrated and angry. So frustrated and angry, in fact, that he would let go of the strict rein he kept on his thoughts and let them all be heard.

It was already working. Aramis, he knew, was incredibly perceptive. He would easily be able to see the emotions lingering beneath Porthos' cheerful exterior. He'd see the simmering worry and concern, the threads of anger and frustration. Porthos had been so honest about such things these past weeks it should be maddening to have them hidden now.

He had to fight down a triumphant smile when Aramis huffed next to him.

"What's  _wrong_  with you?" Aramis demanded.

"I don't know what you mean," Porthos replied lightly, giving the marksman an innocent grin.

"You're smiling," Aramis pointed out as if such a thing were completely foreign.

"Am I?" he feigned surprise and smiled wider. "I hadn't noticed."

"Well stop."

"Why?" Porthos challenged cheerfully. "Why shouldn't I be happy? It's a beautiful day. We're getting out of the city for a few days and I'm surrounded by good company." He leaned forward to pat Fort's neck affectionately.

Aramis cast a skeptical look around them and then up at the sky. Dark clouds had rolled in an hour earlier, promising a downpour to come. The air was humid and chilled. It was perhaps one of the least beautiful days they'd had in awhile.

The marksman shook his head and grumbled something under his breath, turning to face the road again. Porthos grinned and started whistling, some jaunty little tune that he only half remembered.

"Good  _God_ , whistling?  _Really_?" Aramis snapped.

"Do you not like whistling?" Porthos asked curiously.

"I have no issue with whistling!"

"Good then." Porthos started whistling again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aramis tighten the hand he had tangled in his reins. A few tense moments passed and Porthos continued to badly remember the tune. Finally, Aramis rounded on him.

"Would you  _stop_  that?"

"Why?" Porthos wondered with contrived bewilderment.

"Because I find it infuriating," Aramis retorted sharply.

"Fine," Porthos allowed, falling silent.

Aramis heaved a sigh of relief next to him. Porthos allowed him a moment of peace and then glanced at him.

"Do you take the same issue with  _humming_  as you do with whistling?"

"I have no issue with whistling!" Aramis defended loudly.

"You just said you find it infuriating," Porthos reminded.

"No, I said I find  _your_  whistling infuriating. Do you know why? Because you do it  _badly_. You can't seem to remember the tune and what notes you  _do_ remember you mix all up until it's just a jumble of sounds with absolutely no coherency. It's offensive to whistlers everywhere and I'm sure if they were here, they would find it  _just_ as infuriating as I do!" Aramis finished in a rush, drawing in a frustrated breath at the end to make up for the ones he'd skipped to deliver his rant.

Porthos blinked at him, taken aback by the eruption of words. Aramis glanced at him sheepishly, seemingly embarrassed for his overreaction.

Porthos felt his lips twitch and Aramis rolled his eyes. Porthos couldn't hold it back then, he laughed – a deep, hearty laugh like he hadn't done in  _weeks_.

Next to him, Aramis shifted in his saddle and shook his head in exasperation. But when Porthos just continued to laugh, Aramis' lips twitched. Then a chuckle escaped him and then he was laughing too.

They rode on, laughing in their saddles like a couple of school boys.

When the skies opened up and fat rain drops started falling down around them, they shared a glance and inexplicably laughed harder.

It was  _freeing_ , Porthos decided. He couldn't remember the last time his heart had felt as unburdened as it did in this moment.

He watched Aramis tug his hat from his head, throw his arms out to the sides and tilt his head back with his eyes closed, as if embracing the heavens for joining in on their mirth. He continued to smile childishly, letting the rain soak his face short hair. Esmé continued steadily along, unperturbed by the lax reins or lack of direction by her master.

Porthos hadn't seen Aramis look so… _light_  since before Savoy. And it was  _real_. He wasn't pretending for anyone. He wasn't trying to hide anything. He was just  _there_ , existing in the moment.

Porthos let his laughter taper off, but his smile remained. His goal had been to goad Aramis to explosive anger – and he had succeeded. But in that victory, he'd somehow achieved something even more, something beyond what he'd thought would ever be possible.

"We should find an inn," Aramis suggested as he returned his hat to his head, though it seemed pointless now that he'd let himself be soaked through.

Porthos nodded agreeably.

"There's a town a couple of miles ahead," he answered. "There should be an inn there."

"I know it," Aramis confirmed. "I've stayed there many times."

Porthos slid a knowing glance at his companion.

"What's her name?"

Aramis' mouth curled into a smirk.

* * *

Aramis eased the door to his and Porthos' shared room open as quietly as he could, tiptoeing in on bare feet. His doublet was tossed over his shoulder, his belts hooked over his arm and his boots gripped in his hand. He hadn't bothered hooking his bracers back over his shoulders and they hung down about his legs now, letting his breeches sit a bit low on his hips.

Elise had wanted him to stay with her – he usually did when he stopped here, often negating the need to even bother renting a room – but he'd made excuses this time. He hadn't been particularly enthusiastic at spending the evening with her at all, but she'd looked so disappointed when he tried to turn her down that he had relented and let her lead him upstairs to her private room. He had to admit, though, that their activities had at least been somewhat distracting. For a few hours, at least, he'd been able to forget everything else and lose himself in her willing arms.

But when the time came for sleep, he knew he couldn't stay. It was too much of a risk. He was too dangerous and unpredictable coming out of a nightmare. He could not risk harming her in his confusion. So with some nonsense about leaving early and not wanting to wake her with his departure, he'd gathered his things and bid her goodnight.

Closing the door as silently as he'd opened it, Aramis lowered his boots to the floor and then followed them with his doublet and belts. He turned towards the main part of the room and took a step forward, only to catch his bare toes on the leg of a small table he hadn't seen as his eyes struggled to adjust to the inky blackness of the room. With the storm outside, there wasn't even any moonlight through the window to guide him.

" _Merde!"_   _(Shit!)_  he hissed lowly, as he nearly tumbled to the floor and had to hop on one foot to catch his balance. Lightning flashed outside, brightening the room for barely a breath through the small window across the room, but it was enough for him to catch of glimpse of Porthos shifting to sit up in the bed off to his left.

The loud rumble of thunder that followed nearly drowned out Porthos' sleep-roughened voice.

"Aramis?"

"Yes, just me," he assured in a whisper as he limped forward again. "Why's there no fire?" he asked quietly as he felt his way along the wall, looking for a fireplace. Elise's room had a fireplace and even if they hadn't been keeping themselves warm in  _other_  ways, he had appreciated the added heat.

Wood creaked as Porthos shifted on the bed. "There's no hearth," he informed him.

Aramis resisted the urge to curse again. With the cold rain outside, the room was already chilled. Added onto that, Aramis always felt cold these days, especially at night.

As if spurred by his thoughts, a shiver raced through his body.

"Do you want the bed?" Porthos asked and the wood creaked again.

Another crack of lightning lit the room long enough for him to see Porthos about to rise from the bed. The crash of thunder a moment later felt like it shook the entire room.

"Honestly, Porthos, don't be ridiculous," Aramis scolded once the rumble faded. Porthos was already  _in_  the bed. Aramis was not so selfish as to take it from him, even if it was offered.

"Take the extra blanket at least."

A bundle of fabric slammed into his chest without warning and Aramis only barely caught it before it fell. Aramis shot a vague glare in the direction of the faint, man-shaped outline he could now decipher through the darkness.

Blanket in hand, Aramis made his way carefully back to his doublet and bundled it up to serve as a pillow. He pulled his main gauche free of its sheath and tucked it under his arm. He saw a dark mass that he thought might be their saddle bags and went to investigate. It was. A quick search yielded a now familiar strip of cloth from the recesses of his bag. He wound it around his hand for now and made his way back to the open floor space beside the bed.

"Nice evening with Elise?" Porthos asked and Aramis could  _hear_  the grin in his voice.

Aramis felt his own lips twitch in response as he tossed his doublet to the floor and then followed it down, resting his head on the soft leather.

"A gentleman never betrays a lady's reputation, Porthos," he answered as he shook out the blanket and spread it over his body.

Porthos snorted, but then Aramis heard him roll over in the bed.

"Get some rest, Aramis. I'm bettin' you need it."

Then with another chuckle, Porthos fell silent.

Aramis waited a few quiet moments until he heard Porthos' breaths even out as he fell back to sleep. Only then did he unwind the cloth from his hand, peering at it through the darkness. It likely wouldn't do any good in stopping Porthos from hearing him, but it  _would_  save the rest of the inn patrons.

A flash of light cut through the room, briefly illuminating the cloth in his hands.

With a grimace – he'd grown to hate the feel of the fabric between his teeth – Aramis fitted the cloth into his mouth and tied it in place as the thunder rumbled outside. Then he rolled to his side so he could see the door, tightened his hand around his dagger, and closed his eyes.

He fell asleep to the sound of the rain pounding against the glass of the window and the echo of a battle raging around him.

* * *

_He woke to a deep, black darkness that was broken only by the meager starlight that shown through the canopy of trees. Aramis blinked blearily, trying to bring his sluggish mind into line. He was cold, so cold. He could feel the snow seeping into his shirt, turning it wet and cold._

_He should move, he realized. Laying here like a lump would only bring him to death's door more quickly. Today was not his day to die. Not if he had anything to say about it._

_Pushing aside the pulsing, chronic pain in his head, Aramis rolled to his left, intent on pushing himself up from there._

_He came face to face with glazed blue eyes surrounded by an icy white face._

_With a gasp, Aramis threw himself backward, digging his hands and feet into the ground to propel himself away from the frozen body. His hands caught on something stiff and he fell back onto whatever it was. He twisted, staring into sightless brown eyes._

_Horrified, he pushed away and looked around. Frozen corpses littered the earth around him in every direction._

"Todos muertos," (All dead)  _he breathed as his gaze jumped from one face to another._ "Todos muertos," _he said again, stronger. Then again and again as panic set in and he stumbled to his feet._

"Todos muertos. Todos muertos!"

_No matter where he stepped, he tripped over a frozen limb. No matter where he looked, he saw dead, sightless eyes staring back at him, accusing._

_He was alone in a field of the dead. A field of his own making. This was his fault. He had done this._

_He had led them all to damnation._

_He fell to his knees and screamed._

* * *

Porthos woke to the sound of muffled screaming.

His mind, still muddled by sleep, was momentarily confused, thinking perhaps they were under attack. It took a moment more for him to realize that the screams weren't muffled through the walls, that in fact they sounded quite near.

Comprehension slammed into him all at once and he twisted up in the bed, searching the dark room for Aramis.

He found him on the floor right next to the bed, body writhing as he was caught in the throes of a dream. Forgetting for a moment that the screams he heard should be  _much_  louder, Porthos vaulted off the bed, leaping clear over Aramis to land on his other side.

"Aramis! Wake up!" he ordered firmly, warily watching for the dagger he knew the other man slept with. He caught sight of it still clenched in Aramis' hand and reached forward, tearing it from his grip. Doing so only made Aramis writhe harder and scream louder, but it was for the best. Aramis was ruthlessly dangerous when he battled his way from dream to reality and Porthos wasn't willing to risk injury to either of them.

Aramis screamed again then shouted something that Porthos couldn't understand.

It was then that he realized why the screams were muted and the words nothing but disjointed sounds.

Aramis was gagged.

"Bleedin' hell," Porthos gasped in horror. But that was swiftly replaced by rage. He batted away Aramis' flailing arms and seized him firmly by the shoulders, giving him a sharp shake. "Wake up!" he bellowed.

He was rewarded with a flash of frantic, confused brown eyes and then Aramis started fighting him, trying to break free.

"Easy!" Porthos soothed, softening his tone now that he'd gotten the process started. "It's me! It's Porthos!"

Aramis' attempts to free himself slowed.

"'or'hos?" Even muddled as it was by the gag, Porthos understood his own name easily enough.

"I'm here," he assured quietly.

Aramis stopped fighting him and instead latched onto his arms to steady himself.

"That's it," Porthos encouraged. "Follow me back now."

Aramis stilled, panting hard around the gag as his eyes fixed on Porthos' face. Porthos took a breath and slowly loosened one of his hands, easing it carefully towards Aramis' face.

"I'm gonna just…" he hooked his finger in the cloth and, as gently as he could, eased it free of Aramis' teeth. "So you can breathe, all right? Easy now." He let the gag fall to hang loosely around Aramis' neck and then sat back, giving him room to collect himself.

Aramis shifted so he was leaning back against the bedframe and started taking slow, measured breaths. Porthos waited until he was no longer gasping for air before speaking.

"What in the bleedin' hell did you think you were doin'?" he demanded lowly.

Aramis' gaze rose to meet his and the marksman sighed, not even pretending to be confused.

"Why would you do this to yourself?!" he asked, plucking at the cloth still settled around Aramis' neck.

Aramis scowled and reached back, pulling at the knot until the cloth came loose.

"It's nothing," he insisted, balling it in his hand as if hiding it from view would make Porthos forget it.

"That's not nothin'," Porthos argued angrily. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"For their sake." Aramis waved an all-encompassing hand and Porthos could only assume he meant the other patrons in the inn. "So they weren't forced to become unwilling witnesses to the torments of my horrifying subconscious."

Riding a wave of new fury at the casual self-loathing in Aramis' tone, Porthos reached forward. He grabbed a fistful of Aramis' shirt and pulled him closer, giving him a rough shake.

"You are  _not_ some animal to be silenced," he hissed. " _They_ ," he jerked his head toward the door, "don't matter.  _You_  are what matters in this. You won't do this to yourself again," he ordered firmly.

Aramis met his gaze unflinchingly, resolve settled in their dark depths.

"I won't make that promise, Porthos."

Porthos came to a startling realization in that moment. He released Aramis and sat back, eyes wide.

"You've been doin' this the whole time. That's why I haven't heard you at night, why  _no one_ has heard you."

Aramis leaned back against the bed again and didn't bother offering a defense.

Porthos didn't know whether to cry or start throwing punches.

"I would have stayed with you," he reminded in a voice rough with conflicting emotions. "I would have  _woken_ you, just as I did tonight." He met Aramis' unrepentant gaze. "Why choose  _this_ , Aramis?"

When the marksman's eyes welled with moisture and he cut his gaze quickly away, Porthos frowned. It was when Aramis' hand drifted to clutch at the cross hidden beneath his shirt that he remembered.

_It's my penance, Porthos._

"What God would demand such a thing from you?" he asked softly, trying desperately to understand.

Aramis closed his eyes, clenching his jaw so tightly a muscle in its base twitched.

"God does not demand this of me, Porthos," he finally replied. Then he drew in a slow breath and opened his eyes, turning to meet Porthos' gaze. "I demand this of  _myself_."

Porthos could only stare at him, completely at a loss. When Aramis' mouth curled in a sad, weary imitation of a grin, Porthos felt as if he'd somehow failed _._

"Go back to sleep, Porthos," Aramis insisted softly. Then, before Porthos could do anything more than blink in bewildered confusion, Aramis stretched out onto his back on the floor. "We've a long day tomorrow," he added before closing his eyes.

It was a dismissal, and a blunt one at that. But Porthos just sat there in the darkness for several moments, unable to bring himself to move. He watched Aramis steadfastly pretend he didn't notice Porthos' stare. The silence around them grew and Porthos watched Aramis' hands twitch where they rested on his chest.

With a sigh, Porthos stretched across the floor and reached for the dagger he'd tossed aside. Without a word, he grabbed Aramis' wrist and pressed the dagger hilt into his hand. Then he crawled over him back up onto the bed and laid down.

He stared up at the ceiling for a long time after that. He listened as the rain eventually tapered off. He saw the first dim light of dawn break through the dirty window. Most of all, he listened for Aramis to start dreaming again. But that sound never came.

The moment a bit of light broke through the darkness of the night, Porthos realized he hadn't been the only one who sleep had evaded. It was then that Aramis got up and began to prepare to leave.

Porthos rose silently and, side by side with Aramis, prepared for their departure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Eleven
> 
> Ohhhhh mannnnn, Porthos knows about him gagging himself. He and Porthos had a shouting match in the beginning...things are heating up. The downward spiral continues!
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "Stay back," he hissed. The man stopped immediately, hands still raised.
> 
> "Easy," he rumbled. "You know me."
> 
> Aramis shook his head, battling with his lungs. He couldn't breathe.
> 
> "You're not in Savoy," the large man soothed. "Look around you, what do you see?"
> 
> Without meaning to, Aramis glanced around. At first there was only snow. But with a blink it flickered away, replaced by signs of spring. Aramis frowned in confusion, wincing as the pressure in his chest compounded.
> 
> "You're not in Savoy," the man said again, taking a cautious step closer. "It's a trick of your mind."
> 
> The pistol shook in his grip.


	12. I Can Be the One You Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Eleven: Thimblerig, Lady_Neve, HLN, and shanachie
> 
> So early today haha. We have a snow day here so I've got my husband home helping out with the kids so I find myself with some extra time on my hands. What is there to do but go ahead and post Chapter 12 early! Enjoy!

 

 

_I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three._ _  
_ _**Unknown** _

* * *

_May 5 , 1625  
_ _Estate of Comte de Beauvais_

* * *

Aramis glanced over his shoulder as the door all but slammed behind them, scarcely giving them time to clear the threshold.

"You think he might have invited us to stay the night," Porthos muttered next to him. "King's Guard and all. It's not as if we're rabble off the streets."

Aramis started back down the stone staircase towards where they'd left the horses. He heard Porthos trot down after him.

"Don't you think it would have been polite?" Porthos pressed.

Aramis honestly hadn't been surprised. He'd seen firsthand how many supposed 'nobles' tended to treat those they deemed 'lesser' – be it by wealth or breeding. He'd known the moment he'd laid eyes on the Comte de Beauvais that they'd be turned out the moment the king's missive went from their hands to his.

"I was given dinner and bed at a marquis' estate while you were gone in…" Porthos trailed off and cleared his throat. "Anyway, would have been polite seein' how far we traveled and given the sun's nearly gone already."

Aramis retrieved an apple from his saddle bag and fed it to Esmé as he looked up at the darkening sky.

"Men like Beauvais wouldn't let the likes of us even leave the imprint of our asses on their chairs," Aramis finally replied. Beauvais had actually reminded him of his father in some ways. Though, at his core, Beauvais had been nothing but a greedy man who thought position defined power. Julien d'Herblay had made his living under the mandate of the opposite – power defined position. A subtle difference, but one Aramis understood with clarity.

Esmé finished her apple and nudged greedily at his chest.

" _No más,"_   _(No more,)_ he told her regretfully.

"He seemed polite enough when he greeted us," Porthos pointed out as he climbed wearily onto Fort's back. Aramis put his foot in Esmé's stirrup and hauled himself up as well. It had been a long day that had started early. They were both saddle-weary and in dire need of rest.

"Your judgement of character could use some work," Aramis muttered mostly under his breath. It wasn't an entirely fair assessment, really. Aramis had the advantage of having been exposed to his father's associates in his youth, most of whom were  _just_  like Beauvais. It was easy to spot that sort when you knew what to look for.

Porthos scowled at him and turned Fort towards the gates.

"I happen to be quite a good judge of character," he defended.

Aramis hummed doubtfully and urged Esmé to match Fort's gait.

"We're too far from the nearest inn to make it," Porthos commented. Then he smiled cheerfully. "It'll be under the stars for us tonight."

"And in the mud," Aramis grumbled. The storm last night had left the roads a sloppy mess and he knew finding a dry place to camp would be impossible. But then, of course, the whole idea of  _camping_  had his stomach twisting in his gut. It was ridiculous, frankly. He'd always had a great love of the outdoors, to his mother's patient amusement and later his father's frustration. He didn't know why the idea of spending a night under the stars had him itching to clutch at his pistols.

Except he knew exactly why.

"I'm sure we can find a bit of wet grass instead of sleeping in  _mud_ ," Porthos assured with a chuckle.

Aramis sighed.

As soon as they'd woken this morning, Porthos had started the whole cheerful bit again. He'd smiled and talked brightly as if he hadn't woken Aramis from a screaming nightmare and found he'd gagged himself to keep it quiet; as if they hadn't both laid awake in silence most of the night.

On the surface, he seemed carefree and relaxed.

It would have been a relief if Aramis hadn't seen the worry in his eyes; if he hadn't noticed the tense set of his shoulders and the way he kept  _watching_  him as if waiting for Aramis to burst spontaneously into flame or something equally dramatic. Seeing all of that, hidden beneath the bright smiles and hearty chuckles, bothered him like an itch he couldn't reach.

He was made even more wary by how out of character such behavior was. Porthos hadn't brushed aside Aramis' considerable 'issues' since the day he'd woken in Savoy. He'd allowed him his own charade for a time, yes, but even then the concern had been open and the worry obvious. Now, out of nowhere, he was pretending to be unaffected.

It was  _maddening_.

Even  _more_  frustrating, he knew exactly what Porthos was doing. He was giving Aramis a taste of his own medicine, as it were. Showing him how infuriating his own behavior had been over these last weeks.

What he didn't know was  _why_  he was doing it.

And the lack of clarity on that point was perhaps the most maddening of all.

"Aramis!"

He turned, meeting Porthos' gaze. The quizzically arched brow on the larger man's face suggested that had not been the first time he'd tried to get his attention.

"What?"

"That grove we passed on the way in is just around the bend. How does that sound?"

A grove – as in with  _trees_.

A snowy forest flashed before his eyes and suddenly he was  _there_. The sounds of battle echoed around him and his hand found his pistol, pulling it halfway from his belt on instinct alone.

"Whoa! Hey, easy!" Porthos reached and caught Esmé's bridle, bringing them both to a stop.

Aramis blinked rapidly, dispelling the memory that had imposed itself on reality. The vision faded away but the sounds did not. His hand tightened on the pistol, searching the area around them for the threat he could  _feel_  with every fiber of his being.

"Aramis! Look at me!  _Look at me_!"

He forced his head around, dragging his eyes up to meet Porthos'.

"Breathe," Porthos whispered. "There's no one here," he stated. "Just breathe. We'll find another place to stop. No trees," he promised.

Aramis sucked a breath into his panicking lungs and swallowed against his suddenly dry throat. He wasn't able to stop himself from scanning the countryside around them again.

"We can't sleep in the open," he argued hoarsely. His years of soldiering insisted they take the proper precautions.

" _Less_  trees then," Porthos amended.

Aramis squeezed his eyes closed and swallowed again. He still felt it, that tingling in the back of his neck, warning him of unseen danger. Perhaps if he didn't still hear the clashing of steel and the cries of the dying, he would be able to pry his hand from its grip on his pistol.

"Hey," Porthos' voice was insistent but gentle, "are you with me?"

Aramis forced his eyes open and drew in a shuddering breath.

"I'm with you," he replied tightly, as he slowly uncurled his hand from the stock of his pistol. "I just..." he trailed off and shook his head, biting back a confession of his unreasonable paranoia. There was nothing to be done for it anyway. He wouldn't burden Porthos. This was meant to be his penance. It was his to bear, and his alone.

"What?" Porthos pressed.

"Nothing," Aramis answered and then cleared his throat. "Let's keep moving."

He nudged Esmé to start walking again. Porthos was forced to release her bridle or be dragged from his own horse, so he let her go and urged Fort to follow.

* * *

Porthos watched Aramis from across the fire.

When they'd first made camp – in a small clearing nestled just beyond the tree line – Aramis had circled the area no less than five times before he'd decided it was fit for their purpose. Then, as Porthos had built a fire, Aramis had gone hunting for dinner. He'd returned an hour later, pale and trembling, but the rabbit he'd been carrying had been shot directly through the eye.

From there, it had only gotten worse.

Every sound in the trees or shift in the shadows had Aramis tightening his grip on his pistol. His sword, Porthos noticed, sat on the ground next to him, but he never once reached for it.

He never flinched. Never seemed afraid. He was just  _ready_. He was primed for a battle as if it was just around the bend.

"Talk."

Porthos blinked, taking an extra moment to comprehend that Aramis had spoken.

"What?" he finally asked.

Aramis was staring at him across the flames, one hand wrapped around one of his pistols, the other resting lightly on the grip of his dagger. He was sitting against a log, one leg stretched out, the other bent up, pressing his knee to his chest.

"Talk," Aramis said again, though he offered no further explanation.

Porthos stared back at him, thoroughly confused.

"Come on, you've been going on all day and now you've nothing to say?" Aramis accused.

Porthos watched his eyes dart to track something in the trees and then snap back to Porthos.

"Aramis…"

"The smiles and the laughter… You've been playing that game since yesterday. Why stop now?"

Porthos frowned when Aramis' hand went white around his pistol. This was…unexpected. He'd expected his charade to bring about the same explosive reaction as yesterday. He hadn't anticipated Aramis  _demanding_  he keep it up.

Before he could even think of what to say, Aramis straightened, staring off to their left.

"Aramis?"

But the marksman was slowly rising to his feet, gaze pinned on something in the trees like a predator targeting his prey.

"Aramis?" Porthos tried again, more urgently this time.

In a blink, Aramis brought up his first pistol and fired. Porthos nearly jumped out of his skin and before he could do more than curse, Aramis was taking off at a sprint, abandoning the spent pistol even as he drew its twin.

"What the bleedin' hell…" Porthos pushed up, grabbed his sword, and charged after him, buckling his belt into place as he moved.

Aramis dashed into the trees without slowing, making hardly a sound as he pursued whatever had caught his attention. He moved like a panther, Porthos thought distantly; all smooth, coiled, dangerous grace.

Porthos, as he crashed into the trees several paces behind, figured  _he_  was likened more to a bull.

It didn't take long for the light of their fire to vanish behind them and then the darkness of the forest swallowed them.

* * *

Aramis had seen him by chance – a pale face amidst the darkness of the surrounding trees.

He'd been sure, at first, that it was a trick of his mind. So many times over these last weeks his mind had conjured phantoms to torment him. He'd studied the figure in the trees and been sure it was nothing.

But then the man had shifted, realizing he'd been spotted.

Aramis saw a glimpse of a musket barrel and reacted, firing his own pistol before the enemy could get his weapon to bear.

He swore he hit him, but it must have been a graze because the man had been fit enough to flee.

What was Aramis to do but follow?

He kept his gaze pinned on the fleeting figure ahead of him, mindless of the branches that clawed at him. Snow crunched under his feet as he moved. He was gaining. He nearly had him.

He lost sight of his quarry for half a breath, as the man curved behind a tree. Aramis was around the same tree three steps later.

The man was gone.

Aramis stumbled to a stop, breathing hard as he turned, eyes searching the darkness.

He was here. He had  _just_  been here.

Where had he gone?

He had to find him. He had to find him before he got back to the others, before they attacked. He had to…

"Aramis…"

He spun, his pistol rising defensively and finger curling around the trigger.

A large man with dark skin and wide eyes stumbled to a stop, hands raising in surrender.

"Whoa," the man soothed, "easy now."

Something in his voice was familiar,  _so familiar_. But Aramis didn't have time to think about that. He had to find the man who'd been watching them. He had to find him before he brought his men down on the others.

He should have warned Marsac before he ran off. He should have raised the alarm so the others would be ready. He refocused on the man before him, pistol still raised.

"Did you see him?" he asked sharply. "Where is he?" he demanded quickly. "I have to find him," he added breathlessly, searching the area again with his gaze.

"Aramis," the large man rumbled, voice pitched low, "where are you?"

Aramis looked back at him with his brow raised in surprise.

"What kind of question is that?" he scoffed, backing away a pace when the big man tried to approach. "I'm here with  _you_. Where is  _he?_ " he demanded again.

"There's no one here, Aramis," the man replied. "No one but us."

"He was here," Aramis insisted. He looked again, straining his eyes to see into the shadows. "He was  _here_. I have to stop him before… The others… I have to stop him…" He felt as if his lungs started seizing. He couldn't properly draw in breath. He raised wide eyes back the larger man. " _Matáran a todos,"_  he gasped.  _(They'll kill them all.)_

"Aramis." The stranger moved closer. Aramis backed away, pistol wavering in his grip.

"Stay back," he hissed. The man stopped immediately, hands still raised.

"Easy," he rumbled. "You know me."

Aramis shook his head, battling with his lungs. He couldn't  _breathe_.

"You're not in Savoy," the large man soothed. "Look around you, what do you see?"

Without meaning to, Aramis glanced around. At first there was only snow. But with a blink it flickered away, replaced by signs of spring. Aramis frowned in confusion, wincing as the pressure in his chest compounded.

"You're not in Savoy," the man said again, taking a cautious step closer. "It's a trick of your mind."

The pistol shook in his grip.

"You know me," the large man went on gently, easing closer still.

Aramis met his gaze.

He had worried eyes, caring eyes. This man knew him. He cared about him - his voice shook with the weight of it.

Aramis blinked and he remembered.

"Porthos." Relief swept through him and the pistol fell harmlessly to his side. Porthos was an ally, a fellow Musketeer. Something in his chest eased as he realized he was not alone.

"That's right," Porthos seemed to nearly wilt with his own relief, shifting closer, reaching for him.

Aramis recoiled.

"We have to find him," he insisted, stepping one way, then another, uncertain of which path to pursue. He felt his chest start to tighten again.

"There's no one here," Porthos reminded gently, still pitching his voice as if Aramis were a startled colt.

"There was a man," he told him, voice shaking. "I saw him." He turned and gestured vaguely at the trees. " _Yo lo vi_."  _(I saw him.)_  Something squeezed his lungs, preventing them from working properly.

"There's no one here," Porthos corrected calmly. "I was right behind you," he reminded.

Aramis shook his head, dragging in a breath past protesting lungs.

" _Yo lo vi."_

"It was a figment, a phantom, nothing more," Porthos insisted.

Aramis looked up at the branches above them, gaze searching through the boughs to see the heavens beyond. He shook his head again as emotion swelled in his chest, choking him. Was it only in his head? Was he going mad? The vice around his chest tightened.

Aramis reached up to dig his fingers into his hair. His short hair. Always so  _short_ now.

He was so tired of this. He was so  _tired_.

Why couldn't he  _breathe?_  His pistol fell from listless fingers and he pressed a hand to his sternum.

"Aramis?"

His chest tightened painfully and dark spots danced across his vision.

"Aramis!"

His knees gave way and he fell. But no sooner had his knees hit the forest floor than strong hands were wrapping around his arms, keeping him from going down completely.

"Aramis, breathe!"

But he couldn't. His lungs wouldn't work, his chest wouldn't loosen.

"Aramis, hear me now, brother. Come on, you've got to  _hear me_! I'm with you, Aramis. You're not in Savoy. You're not alone. I'm here, Aramis. I'm  _here_."

_I'm here._

_Porthos._

Porthos who was  _always_  here, always at his shoulder. Porthos, whom he wished would  _leave_  at the same time he wanted to beg him to stay.

"Breathe, Aramis. You're not alone. I'm here."

Air slid into his lungs, burning its way through his body like liquid fire.

"You're not alone," Porthos whispered again.

But he  _was_. He would always be alone. Of twenty-two sent to Savoy, he was the only one left.

Something in him cracked.

He exploded out from where he'd been half folded towards the ground, pushing off of Porthos with a growl.

"Why are you here?!" he demanded. "I've done everything I can to drive you away. Why won't you just leave me  _alone_?!" he shouted as he stumbled to his feet and away from the other man. He leaned to snatch his pistol back from the ground.

He suddenly wanted to get back to the camp, to the fire. He was so cold.

He staggered back the way he'd come, only partially remembering the path of his adrenaline-induced flight through the trees.

He heard Porthos hesitate and then follow after him.

"Aramis."

"Just leave me alone!" Aramis snapped over his shoulder.

"I can't do that. I won't."

Aramis rounded on him, nearly tripping over a root hidden by the shadows.

" _¿Por qué?"_  he demanded but Porthos just stared at him. " _¡¿Por qué?!_ "

Porthos' gaze narrowed in confusion and Aramis threw his hands up in annoyance, both with himself and with Porthos. Sometimes he just wished his mind would  _pick_  a language and stick to it.

"WHY?!" he shouted. "Why can't you just let me  _be_?"

"I've told you, Aramis, so many times."

"No," Aramis shook his head and started walking again, putting his back to Porthos, "don't say it."

"I'm your  _brother_."

Whatever had cracked in him fractured further and he whirled once again.

"My brothers are  _dead_! And the one whom I thought could be trusted betrayed that brotherhood when he  _left me there to die_!"

Porthos stared him down, expression grim and fierce all at the same time.

"I'm not Marsac, Aramis."

Aramis dug his hands into his hair and resisted the urge to shout in frustration.

"Do you think I don't know that?" he argued with a touch of hysteria. "I  _know!"_

"Then why do you treat me as if I'm the one who betrayed you?"

Aramis, temper ignited and heart pounding, answered before he could stop himself.

"Because you're the only one  _here_!"

And it wasn't  _fair_. Aramis should have returned to a Garrison of brothers ready to support him. He should have come back to a captain who would guide him back from the darkness he was trapped in. Treville should have been there.

He should have  _been there_.

But he wasn't. He had turned his back on him instead.

 _Everyone_  was content to let him drown in darkness. Everyone was relieved that he did not burden them with his suffering.

Everyone but Porthos.

He had tested Porthos in every way he could. He had pushed and shoved and demanded to be left alone. He had given Porthos every chance to prove that he would let him down, just as Marsac had.

But Porthos remained.

Even now, his steady voice echoed through Aramis' memory.

_I'm here._

He was there and no one else was.

"Aramis…" Porthos stepped closer, hand reaching out.

Aramis backed away, shaking his head and turning. He stalked back through the trees, fixating on the light from the fire that he could finally see again. He heard Porthos trailing after him, but didn't slow. His hands were shaking so hard it was all he could do to slide his pistol back onto his belt. He was still battling it when he broke through the trees back into the clearing.

He was so distracted that he almost didn't notice.

The tingling at the back of his neck.

"Aramis!" Porthos' frantic shout was the second warning he got.

Both, unfortunately, came too late.

A force slammed into him, bringing him hard to the ground. His right shoulder took both his weight and his attacker's and a sickening  _pop_ made his stomach lurch into his throat even as the pain erupted. Then, in a blur, the weight bearing down on him was gone as a howl of rage tore through the space above him.

Aramis pushed his left hand against the ground, already feeling the pain fade to nothing as adrenaline flooded his system and his focus narrowed into battle readiness. Porthos was wrestling with whoever had tackled Aramis, growling like a bear. He seemed to have it well in hand so Aramis scanned for other attackers even as he climbed to his feet.

He tore his pistol from his belt and shot a man leaping from the trees. The man fell back without a sound, Aramis' shot having torn straight through his eye. He threw down the pistol and twisted to reach his dagger, only to realize it wasn't there.

He'd left it and his sword by the fire.

Five more men emerged from the trees, all brandishing swords.

Aramis knew he had to get a blade in his hand if he had any hope of defending himself and protecting Porthos' back.

So he turned and ran.

"NO!" he heard someone shout. "Don't shoot! Take them alive!"

He was almost back to the fire.

Something smashed into the back of his legs, sending him crashing to the ground for a second time. His chin cracked against the earth and he tasted blood, but he didn't feel the pain. He twisted, throwing his left elbow into the face of the man trying to get a better grip on him.

Then he dug his toes into the dirt and clawed his way forward.

Just a bit further.

His fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger and then he was ruthlessly yanked backwards, his fingers grasping uselessly in the grass. With a shout of frustrated anger, he rolled, unseating the weight trying to settle on his back. He grabbed a fistful of the attacker's doublet and hauled himself onto the man's chest. Then, pinning him with his weight, Aramis drew back his left fist and hit him once, twice, three times. Sufficiently stunned, the man blinked dazedly up at him.

Aramis reached down, wrapped his left hand around the attacker's sword hilt and yanked it free of the scabbard. He flipped the blade and drove it down into the man's heart. Then, using the sword as a brace, he pushed to his feet and pulled the blade free, stalking back towards where Porthos was now fighting four men. They'd thought Aramis the weaker threat it seemed.

A mistake.

He entered the fray with a cool, calculated focus. There was no wild emotion, no raging yells. There was only his training, his instincts, and that vein of ruthless fury that he saved for moments like this.

He drove his stolen sword up through the nearest man's back and ripped it free just as swiftly. In the same moment, Porthos snapped the neck of the man he'd been brawling with.

The furthest man shifted back a step and then brought his hand to his mouth, letting loose a loud whistle.

Aramis lunged at the other remaining enemy, sending him stumbling back as he deflected the attack. It gave Aramis room to get to Porthos' side, allowing him the moment he needed to finally draw his own sword.

Side by side, they watched more men melt out of the trees.

Aramis tightened his hand on his stolen sword, frowning as the encroaching enemy shimmered before him. One moment they were simply dressed – mercenaries from the look of it. The next they were masked and there was snow on the ground around them.

Aramis shifted back a step, unsure.

He blinked but the snow remained and the masks didn't fade away.

He was there again.

He was in Savoy.

* * *

A man, riding alone down the road, brought his bottle of wine up to his mouth, intending to let the liquid join the entire bottle's worth already warming his belly, but dropped it to the ground when the blast of a weapon firing broke the stillness of the night. It sounded distant, but that could be the trees playing tricks. Close or not, the sound was sobering.

He straightened in the saddle, taking up the reins with purpose for the first time in hours.

He urged Belle along, trusting his horse to be sure footed in the darkness.

A few minutes later, he thought perhaps he'd imagined the sound in his stupor.

But then he heard a muffled shout.

"NO! Don't shoot! Take them alive!"

Turning back didn't even enter the man's mind as he put his heels into his mount to urge her into the trees towards the shout. Perhaps it was curiosity, or recklessness, but his only thought was to discover the source of the yell.

He could see the light of a fire through the trees and slowed, sliding off his horse and loosely wrapping the reins around a branch. He rested his hand on his sword as he crept closer.

Hiding himself behind a tree, he watched a battle unfold before him.

A man was pushing himself up, having just stabbed another through the chest. Then he was stalking across the small clearing, looking clearly like a predator on the hunt despite the fact that one arm hung uselessly at his side.

The swordsman stalked over to where another small battle was taking place, aiding a large, dark man against four assailants. Together, they halved that number with ease.

A sharp whistle echoed through the air as the smaller man lunged at the nearest of their remaining enemy before stepping up next to his larger companion. Then more men poured from the trees.

The first man took a step back, looking uncertain. But then, even from across the clearing, the stranger could  _see_  the reckless, wild, fury alight in the man's eyes.

Then the battle was on.

The smaller man all but flew forward, fighting like a demon escaped from hell. The larger man followed, bellowing loudly as he covered his companion's back.

The man watching from the trees drew his sword, but hesitated, undecided.

He had simply been passing by the grove of trees when he'd heard the original shot.

It wasn't his fight, really. He had no right to get involved. He simply wanted to move on from Paris towards new cities with new taverns where he could drink his pain away.

But something about seeing two men facing overwhelming odds pulled at his sense of justice. There was no decency in an ambush like this.

Honor demanded he intervene.

Honor. The same honor that had led him to put his wife to death? It had been his duty, his obligation towards his brother. His sweet, gentle brother - stolen, ripped from life by  _her_. But his heart had punished him ever since. What kind of man was he? To have loved a woman capable of such a thing? What kind of man was he to love her  _still_?

He reached with his free hand to grasp at the locket that hung around his neck. He was haunted by her. By her laughter. Her smile. His mind drifted back to the bottle of wine he had dropped, desperately wanting to drink away all thoughts of the woman who had destroyed his life. But he supposed he would have to use another distraction to drown out the memories of her for the moment.

Even as he made to step out from his cover, however, he saw the smaller man go down. A strike from the pommel of a sword, it looked like. He tried to push himself up but was hit again before he could. He went still after that. The larger man let loose a wild roar of anger and killed two men in quick succession, but then a blade caught him across the back of his leg and he went to one knee.

The stranger clenched his jaw when the stock of a pistol cracked against the large man's head a moment later and he fell.

As he watched, both unconscious men were bound with their hands behind their backs. The smaller one was hefted onto a burly man's shoulder and the larger was dragged between two men as they headed back for the trees they'd emerged from.

Sword still drawn, the man eased out of the trees and ran to the campfire, hoping for a clue as to what had just happened or who was involved. He found an ornate pistol, recently fired, abandoned, an undrawn sword, and a forgotten dagger. He collected the weapons, already resolved that he would return them to their owners. He found two sets of saddlebags and two saddles next, prompting him to glance up and around.

There.

He saw a large black horse pulling frantically against its tether. Nearby, the remnants of broken reins hung from a low branch.

Chewing his lip in thought, the man shouldered all he had found, save the saddles, and returned to his own horse. He loaded her down with the extra bags and then mounted, heading back for the clearing. He moved over to the frantic steed and, from his saddle, reached with his sword to slice the reins.

Suddenly freed, the horse took off back towards the road and, hopefully, towards home where it would be looked after. The man turned his own horse then and started across the clearing, paying no mind to the bodies of the dead that had been left behind. Just before reached the trees, he caught sight of something glinting from the moonlight in the grass, something that looked oddly familiar.

Sliding off Belle once again, he crouched and retrieved a second pistol. Frowning, he dug into one of his saddle bags and pulled out the first one. He held them side by side.

Identical.

And expensive.

He slid them both back into the bag and re-mounted, starting into the trees. He progressed slowly, wary of alerting his new enemy that they were being pursued. He wasn't even entirely certain he  _was_  pursuing them. Quite a bit of time had passed since they'd vanished into the trees with their prizes. He might not be riding in the same direction they were going in at all anymore.

That thought was swiftly put to rest when the sounds of arguing reached him from somewhere ahead. Dismounting, he led Belle behind him as he slowly picked his way closer. He left her out of sight and then continued on foot until he came upon a second clearing, smaller than the first.

"It was supposed to be  _easy_!" a man with bright red hair was shouting.

"If you thought taking two Musketeers would be easy, then you're a fool," another man replied coolly. He was hovering over two unmoving figures on the ground, pulling at something on their bodies. He stood a moment later, brandishing two curved pieces of leather.

The stranger blinked, the man's words suddenly sinking in as he stared at the familiar uniform.

Musketeers.

The two captives were of the King's Musketeers.

He'd only met a few, but he had heard many stories. In the five short years since they'd been commissioned, the specialized regiment had set itself apart. They had become known for their high standard of honor and integrity as well as their impressive level of combat skill.

"Take these to him as proof of our good faith," the man instructed, tossing the uniforms to a man already on horseback. "Tell him to meet us at the old church in two days' time with payment."

_Old church._

He frowned, wishing he knew the area or that his brain wasn't wading through a bottle of wine.

"What about  _our_  money," the redhead complained as the man on horseback rode away.

"When I get paid, you'll get paid, not before," the cool man replied. "Get them onto horses."

Then he strode to his own horse and mounted, obviously trusting his instructions to be followed. The stranger watched the two Musketeers each get tossed over a horse's back like sacks of grain. Then the remaining men were moving out, leading the two horses carrying their captives by the reins.

He watched them, frozen in place.

He could turn back, find a nice tree to sleep against and pretend he never saw any of this. He could retrieve the spare bottle of brandy from his saddle bag and drink his way to quick oblivion.

Who could blame him? He was outnumbered, had no information to go on but 'old church', and following them would no doubt risk his discovery.

He could ride back to Paris and report this to the captain of the Musketeers.

But the man had said 'two days.' It would take two to get back to Paris and another two to return, longer if this 'old church' was hard to find.

The Musketeers didn't have time for that.

Honor as a gentleman demanded he pursue. His duty as a man demanded he do whatever he could to rescue the Musketeers from these men's clutches.

No matter what had happened in the past, honor and duty were all he had left now. He might as well be true to them.

Something ignited in his chest, burning warm and bright for the first time since…since his life had fallen to pieces around him. Something that had been missing as he wandered the taverns of Paris trying to drown out the memory of  _her_. Something he had never thought he would feel again.

_Purpose._

* * *

Porthos woke to a pounding in his head. He groaned, trying to shift his hand up to find the source of the tacky stiffness he felt in his hair. He met immediate resistance and found he couldn't even pull his hands forward. They were bound behind his back, he realized suddenly, with rough rope that was scraping into the flesh of his wrists. He was partially on his side, partially on his stomach, with his forehead pressed into something cold and hard. He could feel the chill seeping through his clothes, making him shiver.

"Bleedin' hell…" he muttered as he finally forced his eyes open to take stock of his, apparently dire, situation. He blinked into the dim, dreary darkness and immediately saw a mess of short, dark hair facing him, the body attached to it bound and sprawled exactly as Porthos was.

Aramis.

Porthos grunted and dug his shoulder into the hard stone floor, maneuvering to get his knees under him. Pain flared in his right leg. He ground out a groan, but didn't stop. When he finally succeeded in levering his torso off the ground, he stretched his arms and curled forward, straining to get his bound wrists low enough to slide under him. He kept his gaze fixed on Aramis, who hadn't stirred, as he tried to force his body to bend and stretch just a bit more. The rope dug into his skin, scraping it raw. But then, finally, he slid his bound wrists under his rear and down behind his thighs. He sat back up and wriggled his way to unthread his legs through his bound arms.

As soon as his boots cleared the rope, he was scrambling forward onto his knees, grasping at Aramis' shoulder with his bound hands.

"Aramis?"

There was blood coating the side of Aramis' face, stemming from a cut high on his forehead and a second one next to his right eye. Porthos' gaze slid nervously to the pink, young scar cutting through the hair on the same side. He was no physician, but he knew blows to the head were messy business, especially too many of them too close together.

"Aramis!" he called again, carefully shaking the shoulder beneath his hands.

He was rewarded with a groan.

"Hey, that's it," he encouraged, "follow me back."

"P'th's?"

Aramis hadn't opened his eyes yet, but this brow had creased and lines of pain had tightened around his eyes.

"I'm here," Porthos assured quietly, painfully stepping over Aramis' hips to crouch in front of him, never releasing the grip he had on the other man's doublet. He leaned closer, "Open your eyes, 'Mis."

He winced at the use of the nickname, having said it without meaning to. He hadn't dared use it since Aramis had taken it so badly weeks ago.

"P'th's?" Aramis blinked blearily, frowning in confusion when he saw Porthos hovering in front of him.

"I'm here," Porthos said again.

"Y' sh'dn' be here…" Aramis slurred. His frown deepened as his eyes scanned Porthos' face. " _No esta seguro." (It's not safe.)_

Porthos felt his heart thud to a sharp stop in his chest before restarting in a punishing rhythm. He recognized those words. He didn't know what they meant, but he had heard them before. He watched Aramis' eyes flit around them, seeing everything but not comprehending any of it. A shiver shook Aramis' entire body and Porthos cursed the coldness of the room, suspecting it was only making this all harder.

"You're not in Savoy," he stated firmly. "Listen to me, Aramis," he shifted his tethered hands, twisting them until he could press his fingers against Aramis' jaw. " _You're not in Savoy._ "

Aramis went absolutely still under the touch, eyes fixating on Porthos' with a level of ruthless intensity that made his breath stall in his chest. He stayed frozen as Aramis studied him, and waited as the other man found his way back.

He was able to see it the moment Aramis found his footing again.

"Porthos."

"There you are," Porthos sighed in relief. "I'm here," he assured one more time.

"Where's here?" Aramis asked, lifting his head slightly.

He went pale, eyes widening briefly, then he twisted towards the ground, shoulders rolling unnaturally. Porthos grimaced in realization just as Aramis retched, losing whatever was in his stomach to a bout of violent heaving.

"Easy," he soothed, wrapping his hands in Aramis' doublet when he was finished and dragging him away from the mess. He was startled to a stop when Aramis ground out a sharp moan of pain. "What is it?" he demanded, pulling Aramis upright by his doublet with more care and easing him against the wall. It looked awkward and uncomfortable with his hands still trapped behind his back, but Porthos didn't know what else to do.

"My shoulder," Aramis revealed through gritted teeth, "is dislocated."

Porthos swallowed thickly. Back in the Court, Charon had dislocated his shoulder falling from a stolen horse once. He had cried from the pain of the injury, but that had been nothing compared to fixing it. Porthos would never forget the way Charon had screamed when Old Man Cedric had set it back in place.

But as he watched, Aramis was taking slow, even breaths. The lines of pain in his face faded until he was staring at Porthos with a level, steady gaze.

"I need you to set it," the marksman instructed.

Porthos blinked.

"What?" he gasped. "I can't. I don't… I've never…"

"Porthos!" Aramis cut through his stilted objections. "You have to. If it goes too long, there could be lasting damage."

Porthos shifted his gaze to Aramis' right shoulder, taking in the odd way it was resting.

"Henri has taught me how to do it," Aramis went on calmly. "I've done it a handful of times myself already. That new man, Bertrand, can't seem to keep his shoulder in place for more than a day or two."

Porthos had a sudden memory of Bertrand falling awkwardly during a hand to hand training session. He'd been in obvious pain and carried off to the infirmary before Porthos could work out what was wrong.

"Porthos," Aramis called for his attention when he stayed quiet for too long.

"What do I do?" he managed to ask hoarsely.

"First, I need you to cut us free."

Porthos stared at him in exasperation.

"With what? A sharp glare?"

Aramis blinked at him, and then his lips twitched into a vague grin.

"As fascinating as that attempt would be to witness, I think the blade in my boot would be simpler."

Porthos stared at him and Aramis shifted, shrugging his good shoulder sheepishly.

"You might have  _mentioned_  that," he scolded as he dug his fingers into the side of Aramis' left boot.

"Um…"

"What?" he sent the marksman a sharp look.

"Other boot, Porthos."

Porthos rolled his eyes.

"Of course it is," he muttered, shifting over to Aramis' right foot. His searching fingers found the delicate, narrow hilt almost immediately. He carefully withdrew the blade, realizing that it wasn't sheathed and wary of cutting Aramis with it.

When he had the blade free he took a moment to study it. It was a small thing, barely the length of his palm, and narrow. It had a good balance to it, likely good for throwing. He arched a questioning eyebrow at Aramis as he flipped it in his hands and sawed at the ropes around his wrists.

"I've found, through unfortunate experience, that keeping a weapon or two hidden on my person is a wise precaution."

"Or two?" Porthos wondered as the ropes snapped and he felt a tingling take over his hands. He hadn't realized how  _tight_  those bindings were until they were finally gone.

"Come now, Porthos," Aramis huffed in amusement and let Porthos carefully turn him so his hands were visible, "I can't very well reveal all my secrets, can I?"

Porthos rolled his eyes and carefully cut at the ropes around Aramis' wrists. He wasn't sure he  _wanted_  to know where else Aramis might be hiding another blade. Porthos, personally, had never been one for concealed weapons. In the Court, everybody had been armed and no one bothered pretending they weren't.

The ropes fell away and he dropped the knife, carefully easing Aramis' injured arm around to his lap.

"Now what?" he asked worriedly, noticing Aramis had lost a shade of color and was taking slow, determined breaths again. The marksman was using his good hand to carefully feel around on his injured shoulder. Finally, he nodded sharply.

"Help me lie down." Porthos did, sitting by his right side. "Now brace your boot here, on my ribs, and take my arm. One hand above my elbow, one above my wrist."

Porthos did as he was instructed, watching Aramis' jaw flex against unvoiced pain.

"Straighten it towards you, yes, like that. Good."

Aramis went quiet for a moment, eyes closed and jaw clenched. Porthos licked his dry lips and swallowed, waiting.

"In a moment, you're going to pull with all you've got. Whatever you do, don't stop until you feel my arm shift back to where it should be."

Porthos felt sweat sprout on his brow despite the coldness of the room.

"And if I pull your arm off?" he worried.

Aramis huffed a tight chuckle.

"I've no doubt of your strength, Porthos, but even you couldn't manage that."

"Aramis…" Porthos swallowed again. He didn't want to do this. The memory of Charon's scream echoed through his head.

Aramis opened his eyes and glanced at him.

"I need you to do this, Porthos. Please."

The quiet plea steeled Porthos' nerves and he nodded, tightening his grip on Aramis' arm.

"Remember," Aramis instructed as he fixed his gaze on the ceiling, " _don't stop_."

"I won't," Porthos promised. "On three?"

"Why not." Aramis sounded a bit impatient now and Porthos took a breath to prepare himself.

"One…two…three!"

Porthos pulled.

Aramis didn't scream, not like Charon had. Instead he arched off the ground, jaw clenched so tightly Porthos worried for his teeth. He didn't seem to breath, didn't make a sound, but his uninjured hand pounded once against the ground in a closed fist.

Porthos wished he would just scream. He was sure it would have been better than the silent agony the marksman seemed to be bleeding into the air around him.

True to his word, he didn't stop, not until a stomach-churning 'pop' sounded from Aramis' shoulder and the joint settled back into place. Porthos immediately stopped pulling, but didn't let go of his hold on Aramis' arm. The marksman melted back to the floor, breathing like he'd just run a lap around the palace gardens.

"Aramis?"

"Good," Aramis praised, voice hoarse as if he'd been screaming for hours. "You did good, Porthos."

Porthos felt rather like he'd aged a decade in the last sixty seconds, but he nodded in acceptance anyway. He helped Aramis sit up again and eased him back against the wall. Carefully, he rested Aramis' arm into his lap and then released him.

"A sling?" Porthos suggested though he wasn't entirely sure if they had anything to fashion one with. But Aramis just shook his head.

"I'll be needing both arms by the end of this, I think," Aramis explained, turning his focus on Porthos with alarming intensity.

"What?" Porthos couldn't quite keep the defensive edge out of his voice.

"Are you hurt?" Aramis demanded suddenly, eyes sweeping over Porthos critically.

Porthos' head ached and he felt his leg throb where he'd been cut. He opened his mouth to reassure his friend that he was fine. But Aramis eyes narrowed.

"You are," the marksman decided. Then there were hands in Porthos' hair, gently, but persistently skimming his scalp. He couldn't help but hiss when Aramis' probing fingers found the wound at the back of his skull.

"Easy," he squawked as Aramis unceremoniously pulled his head forward so he could inspect the damage. In the dimness of their prison, lit only by a small vented window high in the ceiling, Porthos wasn't sure exactly what Aramis hoped to accomplish.

"Is your vision impaired? Are you dizzy? Are you confused at all? Is your stomach unsettled? Do you know your name? The day?"

Porthos closed his eyes and shook his head against the rapid fire questions. He reached up and caught Aramis' hands, pulling them away from his head so he could raise it to meet Aramis' gaze. The marksman's eyes were wide and somehow bore an air of fierce focus as well as a touch of frantic hysteria.

"Porthos du Vallon," he answered gently. "Considerin' dawn is breaking," he tilted his head towards the small window, "I'd say it's now Tuesday. No dizziness, no faulty vision, no confusion, no upset stomach. That was  _you_ , remember?"

Some of the tension left Aramis' posture and he blinked, pulling one hand from where Porthos had his trapped to wipe self-consciously at his mouth even as he cut his gaze away.

"Do you know  _your_  name?" Porthos challenged with a teasing grin.

He was pleased when more tension faded from Aramis' posture and he slid a vague glare in Porthos' direction. Porthos smiled in response, but then sobered.

"You were confused when you woke, Aramis," he reminded, worry thickening in his throat. "And you were sick."

Aramis hummed in vague annoyance, dancing his fingers across the right side of his face and the two cuts residing there.

He must have seen the worry building in Porthos' eyes because his fingers slid back to ghost over the scar on the side of his head.

"It's all right," he assured. "My stomach has always been a bit temperamental when it comes to head wounds. And it was the cold of the room, I think, more than these," he gestured at his bloody face, "that caused the confusion. The cold always seems to…" Aramis trailed off abruptly, gaze cutting away as tension tightened in his shoulders again.

Porthos tightened his hold on the hand he still somehow had caught in his. He wondered what it meant that Aramis hadn't pulled it away.

"Don't do that," he admonished gently. "Don't hide from me, Aramis."

"I'm not hiding," Aramis defended quietly, but the way he refused to meet Porthos' gaze suggested otherwise.

"You are," Porthos argued levelly. "You have been since you came back. But you don't have to." He leaned until he caught Aramis' averted gaze. "You don't have to," he said more firmly.

For a long moment, Aramis was as still as a statue – unmoving and barely breathing. Then, without warning, his shoulders bowed as if a great weight had just settled on them. Later, Porthos imagined that _this_  was the moment Aramis had begun to break. This moment, he would come to realize, was the turning point.

"But I  _do_ ," Aramis countered softly. There was such a heavy weight in his voice that Porthos only barely resisted the urge to reach out and pull the smaller man into a protective hug.

"Why?" Porthos demanded, fighting and failing to keep his voice even. This was too important. This conversation had been waiting for far too long.

When Aramis tilted his head and met Porthos' gaze fully, the larger man felt his chest tighten at the sheer  _weight_  of sadness, weary resignation, and  _loneliness_  in Aramis' eyes. He tightened his hands around Aramis' again.

"It's what they needed."

"Who?"

"Everyone," Aramis revealed. "Why do you think no one has said anything? Why do you think they have allowed this to go on so long? Even Treville…" A pain so tangible flashed through Aramis' gaze that Porthos was certain he felt it by extension. The marksman swallowed thickly and shook his head. "They don't  _want_  to see, Porthos."

"I want to see," Porthos insisted. "I  _said_  something.I  _didn't_  allow it."

Aramis stared at him with a sad and weary resignation in his eyes.

"And you were the only one, weren't you?"

And something finally slid into place in Porthos' mind.

"That's why you were so angry with me all the time," he realized. "Not because I didn't allow you your mask, but because it was only me who didn't."

Aramis' lips twisted in some tragic version of a smile.

"What were you to me compared to  _them_? Compared to Treville? It shouldn't have been  _you_ , Porthos."

The words should have sounded accusing, even bitter. But instead, Porthos heard a vein of bewildered awe. Still, after all this time, all that had happened, Aramis doubted him.

"You knew what I was," he accused. "What I still am. You just don't want to trust it. Maybe you can't. But you  _know_ , Aramis."

Porthos refused to believe he had been the only one to feel it – the instant spark of brotherhood. He knew he wasn't the only one to have felt the kinship, the familiarity, the sense of  _home_. He knew Aramis had felt it too. But Marsac's betrayal was a poison that had left nothing in Aramis' life untouched.

The smaller man's lips twitched into a frown as he studied Porthos like he was some unsolved puzzle.

"And I know you think you have to do this alone, Aramis," Porthos pressed, determined to push for as much ground as he could. "But you don't. I'm  _here_  and I won't leave you."

Something flashed in Aramis' eyes and in an instant Porthos knew he'd pushed too far.

Aramis' hand, clasped tightly in Porthos' all this time, withdrew sharply.

"Aramis…"

"You know why I have to do this alone," Aramis accused. "I  _told_  you why."

"And you're wrong."

Aramis' eyes hardened and his face turned to stone. Without another word he stood and backed away.

"Aramis."

"I don't expect you to understand," Aramis snapped, an anger that Porthos found all too familiar coloring his tone. Porthos watched him circle the small room, hands tracing the walls as he inspected their prison.

Porthos sighed and looked around as well.

The room was small and dark, though it was getting brighter as the sun rose higher outside, filtering more and more light through the solitary little window above them. He was studying the window, idly wondering if it would be of any use for their escape, when a sharp hiss drew his attention.

He swung his head around to Aramis and found the man staring down at something on the floor.

Porthos followed his gaze and saw a drying patch of blood. The cut on his thigh twinged in pain.

A set of dark, accusing eyes settled on him.

"My leg," he admitted freely. "I don't think it's deep."

In a flash, Aramis was on his knees at Porthos' side.

"Which leg?" Aramis demanded as he started pulling at his own doublet, stripping it off and yanking his shirt tail out of his breeches.

"My right," Porthos told him even as Aramis sharply tore a strip off the hem of his shirt, leaving the fabric hanging in a jagged, sorry pattern.

He shifted obligingly to allow Aramis access to the wound and tried not to do more than grimace when Aramis prodded it.

"It could do with some stitching," Aramis muttered. "I need to start carrying a medic kit," he added softly as an afterthought.

"You could hide it with your secret knives," Porthos suggested with a chuckle. He grinned when Aramis' gaze flitted up to his. The marksman's lips twitched in reluctant response.

"Not an altogether terrible idea, that," Aramis replied as he carefully, but tightly, wound the strip of torn shirt around Porthos' leg. He tied it off and sat back, studying Porthos with that puzzled stare again.

"What?" Porthos wondered, stretching his leg and wincing. It felt better, though, with the pressure of the makeshift bandage.

Aramis cocked his head and opened his mouth, but abruptly closed it and looked over his shoulder towards the door. A moment later, Porthos heard it.

A shuffle and then a thud.

Aramis brought his head back around to meet Porthos' gaze.

In the span of moments, they had an entire conversation without speaking a word.

They shared a decisive nod and Aramis looked pointedly at the knife Porthos had abandoned on the floor, clearly telling Porthos to take it.

Porthos tilted his head and hardened his gaze. If Aramis thought he would take their only weapon and leave Aramis defenseless, Porthos had only one word for him.

_Un-bloody-likely._

Aramis rolled his eyes and gave Porthos an insultingly patronizing glare. He then produced a second knife from what Porthos was certain had to be thin air.

"Where did you have that?" Porthos wondered as he snatched the first knife from the floor. Together, they climbed to their feet, Porthos a bit more gingerly, and moved to stand on either side of the door, Porthos to the left, Aramis to the right. The door, raised as it was above a set of five stone stairs, stood now at their waists, but with any luck the position would hide them from immediate view.

"A hidden sheath on the inside of my breeches," Aramis responded. He gave Porthos a narrow look. "Where did you _think_  I had it?"

"Honestly I was terrified to guess."

Aramis snorted a chuckle and then sobered when the sound of keys in the door lock alerted them to their visitor's arrival. Porthos shifted the small blade in his hand and waited.

The door creaked open and a tall, ginger haired man stood there. Porthos recognized him from the battle when they'd been taken. He coiled his arm, ready to strike, but the man tipped forward, crashing face first down the stairs without so much as a groan. He tumbled to a heap on the stone floor and didn't move.

Porthos stared down at the body, then looked up at Aramis who was looking equally bewildered. As one, they turned to the door.

A man with straight, light brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and a bearing that spoke of noble breeding stood in the doorway, an elegant sword in his hand.

Porthos looked to Aramis again but the marksman was fixated on the newcomer. His head was tilted slightly and there was a curiously perplexed arch to his brow.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Porthos wondered even as he realized the man seemed inexplicably  _familiar_.

"My name is Athos."

The man inclined his head a bit in greeting. His voice was clean and clear, his speech polished in a way that confirmed what Porthos had guessed about his heritage. Porthos shared a look with Aramis, whose brow arched further as he met Porthos' gaze. They both looked back at this  _Athos_  when he spoke again.

"Now, if you gentlemen would follow me, I have come to rescue you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Twelve
> 
> And so Athos finally arrives. I'm sure many of you have been waiting anxiously for his official entrance into the story. I know we kind of saw him in passing a couple of chapters ago - that was just a tease ;) I thought long and hard about how to introduce him and in the end, I wanted his true debut to be something befitting the honor and bravery his character embodies. I hope you all are as excited to see the three of them come together as I am!
> 
> Share your thoughts with me! I would love to hear them!
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "This was too easy," Aramis whispered. "Something's not right."
> 
> "That shot should have brought them down on us," Porthos agreed.
> 
> "They're waiting for us," Athos finished.
> 
> "I'll distract them," Aramis decided. "You two get out and go for help."
> 
> "We'll distract them," Porthos corrected sharply and then looked at Athos. "You slip out and go for help. Captain Treville in Paris – tell him everything."


	13. When You're Low

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Twelve: Mademoisellesnowflake, BourbonRose, shanachie, Thimblerig, Lady_Neve, and Scarlett77

 

 

_The crest and crowning of all good, life's final star, is brotherhood.  
_ _**Edwin Markham** _

* * *

_May 6, 1625  
_ _Location unknown_

* * *

Athos watched the two men before him share another look. He'd lost count now of how many times they'd done that just since he'd opened the door. This one was decidedly skeptical.

"Do we trust him?" the larger one queried lowly in a whisper that was a bit too loud to even be considered a 'whisper' at all.

The smaller of the two shrugged his left shoulder in a distinctly 'why not?' gesture and looked back at Athos. Athos resisted the urge to shudder. Despite the flippancy of the man's easy grin and gesture, his gaze was intense and searching. Athos felt as if his very soul were being examined and put to the test in the few moments of silence that enveloped them.

Then the young man's gaze shifted to something over Athos' shoulder.

"Get down!"

Hands fisted in the hem of his doublet and yanked him forward. He would have sprawled down the handful of stone steps if not for the larger man's arms catching him around the chest. A hand slid across his back and curled around to the pistol at his hip. Even as Athos twisted to see what was happening, the smaller of the Musketeers was bringing Athos' pistol to bear and firing.

The young man growled out a curse in what Athos thought might be Spanish, left hand going to grip his right shoulder as the pistol fell from his fingers. But despite the pain firing the pistol seemed to have caused, his aim had been unerringly true.

A man had stuttered to a stop in the doorway, a dagger raised threateningly in his hand. The man's legs collapsed beneath him and he crumbled, a neat hole directly over his heart.

"They'll have heard that," the larger man announced as he steadied Athos and then leaned down to steal a sword off the man Athos had used to open the door.

"Do you know the way out?" the other man demanded of Athos even as he slid a small knife behind his back and hid it away.

"Only the way I came in," he answered. "Which may prove a bit more difficult now."

A few quick steps across the small room and the younger man was shrugging into a worn, brown, leather doublet that was long enough to brush his knees. Then he was back with them, reaching up to pilfer the body in the doorway, stealing a pistol and a sword. He started to slide the pistol onto his belt, only to apparently realize that he wasn't wearing one. The irritated frown that took over the man's features might have been amusing if the situation were a bit less precarious.

Athos took the moment to lean down and retrieve his own pistol from the ground.

Both Musketeers shared another look, nodded and then turned as one to face him.

"Aramis, of the King's Musketeers, at your service," the smaller one inclined his head slightly as he introduced himself.

"I'm Porthos, and same as he said," the other one canted his head towards Aramis.

Quite suddenly, Aramis tucked his stolen sword under his arm and wrapped his left hand around his right shoulder, looking startled.

"My uniform."

Porthos' hand flew to his same shoulder, looking equally horrified.

"They took them," Athos supplied. "As proof that they had you I believe."

"Proof for who?" Aramis demanded.

"Somebody wanted Musketeers," Porthos realized with a startled breath.

"Or wanted  _us_ ," Aramis theorized darkly.

"Gentleman," Athos interjected with a level calmness that surprised even him given how each wasted second increased their chances of being caught. "Our escape?"

The twin looks he got were somehow both sheepish  _and_ unrepentant.

Aramis waved him on dramatically.

"After you."

Athos tightened his hand around his sword and started up the stairs, stepping carefully over the body in the doorway. Porthos followed after him, and then Aramis brought up the rear.

They made quick progress through the short, narrow hallway and Athos heard Aramis whistle lowly as they passed the two men Athos had brought down to get to them.

"He's not bad," he whispered to Porthos.

Athos found himself fighting down a wave of pride at the praise.

They made it up the narrow staircase without incident and paused against the wall next to the doorway that would lead out to the main room of the small, ramshackle house they found themselves in. Athos could only guess the 'old church' was a separate location meant only as the place for the exchange.

"This was too easy," Aramis whispered. "Something's not right."

"That shot should have brought them down on us," Porthos agreed.

"They're waiting for us," Athos finished.

"I'll distract them," Aramis decided. "You two get out and go for help."

" _We'll_  distract them," Porthos corrected sharply and then looked at Athos. "You slip out and go for help. Captain Treville in Paris – tell him everything."

Athos shook his head.

"They're handing you over in less than two days. By the time I got to Paris and back it would be too late."

"Then just get out," Aramis insisted. "Get to safety. You've already done more than enough."

He had, Athos realized. He'd done more than most men would. He'd risked his life to give these two men a fighting chance. But he hadn't come all this way, risked this much, to run when the danger finally showed its face. Perhaps he would die here, with these two strangers. But at least he would be dying  _for_  something. Better this death than in a gutter with wine on his breath and her name on his lips.

Better to die a man of honor than a weak coward.

"Three swords stand a better chance than two," he countered.

Aramis and Porthos shared a look and then nodded at him.

"All for one," Porthos whispered fiercely, turning an expectant look on Aramis.

But the smaller man faltered. Athos watched, confused as Porthos' expression shifted into a mixture of heartbreak and frustration.

"That still means something to me," the large man said as he pinned Aramis in place with his gaze. "It used to mean something to  _you_."

"It still does," Aramis breathed, voice shaking.

Athos looked back and forth between them, realizing something far deeper was going on here than he knew.

"Then say it," Porthos demanded. "If you believe it,  _say it._ "

Still, though, Aramis hesitated.

"After everything, after all we've been through," Porthos accused, his voice shaking with too many emotions for Athos to identify, " _still_  you doubt me."

Aramis stood rigid, jaw clenched, hands white where they gripped his stolen weapons.

Athos watched something in Porthos shift, a sort of weary resignation and unwilling understanding drifting across his expressive face. Then Porthos turned, all thoughts of the coming battle seemingly forgotten, and wrapped his large hand around the back of Aramis' neck.

"It's all right," he assured. The sheer  _warmth_  and affection in his voice stood in direct contrast to the fire he'd spoken with only moments ago. "I'll trust enough for both of us."

Athos hadn't realized it was possible to  _see_  something break in a man's eyes until he watched it happen in Aramis at that moment.

But there was no time for him to crumble and Athos watched walls of steel erect themselves in Aramis' gaze a moment later.

The smaller man managed a nod and Porthos nodded back.

"Ready?" Athos asked as he shifted his grip on his sword.

He didn't know what he had just witnessed, but the way Aramis' gaze was fixated on Porthos – even though the larger man was no longer looking – told him it was something monumental.

"The door is to the left. Fight towards it and don't stop," Athos whispered.

Aramis shifted past him, taking up first position by the doorway. He lifted the stolen pistol so it pointed towards the ceiling and closed his eyes.

When he opened them a moment later, Athos saw the same ruthless fury he'd witnessed hours ago when Aramis and Porthos had been taken.

Then he whispered something under his breath, so lowly that Athos barely heard it.

"This is not our day to die _."_

Behind Athos, Porthos went rigid.

Those words, slipping like a breath past Aramis' lips, felt like a promise.

"No," Porthos agreed fiercely, "it's not."

Then Aramis moved.

* * *

Aramis stepped through the open doorway, pistol raised.

The dozen men that were waiting for him swiftly became one less.

He flipped the spent pistol in his hand, intending to use it as a club, and lifted the sword in his left hand to his chin in a mocking salute even as he advanced.

He sensed Athos and Porthos charging after him and the three of them, as one, met the enemy in a clashing of steel.

Aramis knew what was coming. He knew that something about a sword in his hand and a battle before him triggered the memory in his mind. He knew this.

And yet, when it happened, when the rundown house faded away to a forest of trees and snow, his heart still stalled in his chest. When the enemy's faces blurred into nothing but faceless masks, his lungs still seized in momentary panic.

Part of him knew it wasn't real, that it couldn't be. But the cold, frozen air bit into his skin. The snow crunched beneath his boots. His breath turned to crystals before him.

He knew it shouldn't feel real.

But it did.

It was.

And once again, he was alone.

* * *

After that initial charge, the rush of battle flooded Athos' system, shutting out any fear or trepidation he might have felt. He let his instincts and his lifetime of training in swordplay guide him.

Aramis pushed ahead, diving into the fray with ruthless ferocity. That, combined with Athos' precise skill and Porthos' relentless tenacity, gave them the push they needed to start making headway towards the door.

Hope sprouted in Athos' chest even as he lunged backwards, parrying away an attack. His back met with solid resistance and he turned, realizing he'd run into Aramis.

The young Musketeer spun and, when he met Athos' gaze, there was absolutely no recognition there. Athos suddenly found himself defending against a friendly attack as Aramis bore down on him.

Athos defended as best he could, confused and startled. The enemy around them rushed forward, seeing an opportunity. Athos was sure they would both be cut down, right there. He met Aramis' eyes.

"Aramis!" he called sharply.

But Aramis didn't hear him. Athos saw it then, in the young man's gaze, something painfully familiar.

This was a lost and broken soul – not unlike the one Athos saw every time he looked at himself in a mirror – and wherever Aramis thought he was right now, it wasn't Athos he was fighting.

Athos thought he should feel afraid or even angry at being so ruthlessly attacked by a man who was his ally. But instead, all he felt was overwhelming understanding and an unexpected flood of kinship.

He knew how it felt to be lost in your own head. He knew all too well.

"Aramis!" Porthos' sudden shout broke the spell and Aramis went rigid.

Athos used the reprieve to defend them both, driving back the encroaching enemy and cutting down two that got too close. He turned back to Aramis in the brief moment of rest his skill won him.

Aramis was staring at him, the paleness of his skin standing out far too harshly against the dark, dried blood on his face. His eyes were filled with horrified realization, apparently completely aware of what had just happened. He looked startled and helpless and entirely  _too young_  in that moment.

Without warning, Athos had the urge to reassure him, to take away that rattled vulnerability.

In a tactile move far beyond his own comfort zone, Athos mimicked what Porthos had done earlier and wrapped a hand around the back of Aramis' neck.

"It's all right," he managed breathlessly.

Aramis' eyes widened a bit and he opened his mouth, but before he could speak, his gaze shifted. Then he was fullbody tackling Athos to the ground even as the sound of pistol fire cracked through the room.

Athos felt his breath leave him in a rush as he hit the ground with the full weight of the young Musketeer on his chest. Aramis rolled off him a heartbeat later, rising in one graceful, fluid motion to drive his stolen sword up through the chest of the man who had shot at them and then rushed forward to finish off those remaining.

"I need them alive!" someone shouted angrily.

Athos forced a breath into his starving lungs and blinked at the hand suddenly thrust down into his view. He followed the arm up to Aramis' face and then reached for it, letting the Musketeer pull him up.

Porthos lunged forward with a growl, driving his stolen blade through a man's chest and joining them.

They stood, forming a triangle with their backs as the men pressed in once more.

They'd managed to each kill one more before a pistol shot had everyone freezing in place as plaster rained down from above.

"Enough!" a man growled so loudly it echoed off the walls.

Athos pressed his back more solidly against Aramis and Porthos as the men surrounding them backed up a bit.

A tall man with dark brown hair, green eyes, and wearing all black strode forward. He made a motion with his hand and suddenly several pistols were pointed at them.

"I thought you wanted us alive," Aramis taunted brazenly. Athos twitched his gaze towards him, wishing he could silence the younger man with nothing more than a glare.

"I need you alive," the man allowed, "but not unharmed. Put down your weapons."

The three of them, nearly as one, collectively hesitated.

"Shoot that one in the leg," the man instructed, pointing his spent pistol at Aramis.

"Wait!" Athos and Porthos both protested at the same time. They shared a look over their touching shoulders and reluctantly tossed their weapons down.

Aramis didn't move, didn't surrender his own weapon. When a blade twitched towards him threateningly, Aramis boldly knocked it away with a snarl.

The man in black tilted his head, studying Aramis a bit closer.

"Last chance," he warned. "Or your friends will pay the price."

"Hurt them, and I'll run you through," Aramis threatened darkly.

"Maybe," the man taunted. "But they will suffer all the same."

Aramis was nearly vibrating with tension, so unwilling to give up his only defense. But it wasn't his only defense, Athos realized. He had Athos. And he had Porthos. Athos shifted his weight, leaning more solidly into Aramis' shoulder. Behind him, he felt Porthos doing the same.

Aramis didn't move.

* * *

It took a moment for it to filter past the battle-induced adrenaline, past the hardened instinct not to relinquish his weapon.

But filter it did; a solid, constant pressure at both his shoulders.

 _Porthos and Athos_.

And Aramis had to choose.

Did he trust only himself and the blade in his hand? Or did he trust the men standing at his back to be a different kind of defense.

He didn't know if he had it in him to trust them with his life.

But they had trusted him with theirs.

_I'll trust enough for both of us._

Porthos had trusted him to have his back. He would not risk Porthos coming to harm.

He lowered the tip of his sword to the ground, balancing it there for a moment. Then with a decisive push, he shoved the hilt away, letting it fall out of reach. He tossed the pistol he'd used as a club down after it.

The man in black smirked in triumph and Aramis felt an overwhelming urge to beat that look off the man's face.

"I knew you'd see reason," he goaded arrogantly. "I don't want any more surprises. Take their doublets and their boots and bind them again."

Aramis fought every instinct he had to resist the urge to swat away the hands pulling at his doublet, yanking it from his shoulders. He kept his glare firmly on the man in black even when his hands were bound tightly in front of him and first one boot, then the other, were forcibly taken from his feet.

Athos and Porthos, identically stripped and restrained, were shoved to stand at either side of him. But he didn't look at them. He only had eyes for the enemy.

The man in black stepped closer, feeling bolder now that they were bound, no doubt.

He ignored Athos and Porthos, though, in favor of stepping toe-to-toe with Aramis.

"You fight like the devil himself is trying to break free of you," the man murmured as he studied him.

"Untie my hands," Aramis taunted, "and I'll arrange a personal introduction."

The man chuckled, never breaking his gaze from Aramis'.

"I could have use for a man like you."

Aramis went cold.

He had known men like this stranger in black before. This was the type of man his father had employed to do the work he needed done quickly and quietly. This type of man was cruel and hard and, at the end of the day, only cared about the coin in his pocket.

Julien d'Herblay was the exact same, the only difference being that he had taken it a step further.  _Power_  had been his true currency. For six years his father had done his best to mold Aramis into his own image. When he had left his father's house seven years ago, he had been certain Julien d'Herblay had failed.

Now, though, with violence and ruthless fury coiled in his chest, Aramis saw clearly how he was his father's son.

And then, as they always had whenever the darker parts of his soul threatened to break free, his mother's words soothed his raging heart.

_Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero. (Be strong, my little warrior.)_

Her voice drifted through his mind, reminding him to be strong, to fight the darkness.

He lifted his chin, feeling the volatile anger in his chest settle and cool.

Some part of him may always be his father's son, but a larger part would forever belong to his mother.

"Men like me exist to stop men like you," he countered calmly.

The stranger in black smiled.

"Who searched them?" he asked suddenly, gaze still locked with Aramis'.

That was fine. Aramis would not be the first to look away.

A man off to the side shifted uncomfortably.

"I did," he answered.

The man in black tilted his head and finally broke his gaze away to regard the man who had replied.

"Did you remove all of their weapons?"

"Of course I did, Luc."

Aramis latched onto that – a name, Luc.

"Then, Antoine," Luc strolled casually up to the man, "how did they get free of their bonds?"

Antoine swallowed thickly.

"I don't know."

Luc smiled.

Aramis saw it coming a moment before it happened. He twitched, fighting the urge to intervene even if Antoine was his enemy, too.

Luc drew a dagger from his back and drove it up into Antoine's gut.

"For your failure," he hissed.

Then he withdrew the knife and wiped it casually on Antoine's doublet even as the man fell.

" _One_  of you must have had a knife," Luc announced as he turned back to them. "I suppose it could have been you," he eyed Athos with a narrowed gaze, "but it wasn't, was it? No, not enough time passed after that shot for you to cut them free, bind this one's leg  _and_  set this one's shoulder." Luc motioned first at Porthos' bandaged thigh and then at Aramis. He glanced at Porthos then. "You don't seem the sort to bother hiding your intentions or your weapons."

Aramis glanced at Porthos whose gaze was clearly doing its best to cut Luc down where he stood. He thought of the small blade he'd given Porthos that hadn't been thrown down when they gave up their weapons.

"That leaves you, my friend," Luc theorized as he stepped up to Aramis again. "Where is it?"

Aramis blinked innocently.

"Where's what?" he wondered, feeling the pressure of his hidden blade in the back of his breeches.

Luc smiled, a predatory, aggressive smile that gave Aramis the split second of warning he needed before Luc reached forward and clamped down on his right shoulder, digging his fingers in brutally.

Aramis felt the blood drain from his face down to his toes when white hot  _pain_  suddenly ignited through his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and grunted at the unexpected agony.

His shoulder had been injured. Somehow he'd forgotten about that. But this new pain, it went beyond abused muscles. No, Luc's thumb was very distinctly digging  _in_  past the surface of his flesh.

Luc huffed a wolfish chuckle.

"You didn't even know you'd been shot, did you?"

Well that certainly cleared things up. He didn't remember it happening, but it must have been when he tackled Athos out of the line of fire. He hadn't felt it happen. In fact, he hadn't been aware of  _any_ pain since the fight started. Even his shoulder, though weaker than it usually was and unfit to wield his sword, hadn't hurt once the heady rush of battle flooded his system.

Now, though, with Luc's fingers brutally digging into torn flesh, Aramis felt  _everything_.

He had to lock out his knees to keep from going down.

Next to him, Porthos growled and surged forward, but hands caught him and held him back before he ever got close to Luc. On his other side, Athos had gone rigid, but seeing Porthos' failure, had not advanced.

"Where is it?" Luc asked again, his voice dropping to a threatening growl.

Aramis pressed his lips together. He couldn't give up his blade too quickly. Luc would likely find it on his own. But he had to make the man believe it was their only hidden weapon. He had to keep Luc's attention on him and  _off_  of Porthos.

The hand on his shoulder suddenly withdrew and Aramis couldn't stop his sharp exhale as the pain immediately ebbed. But then Luc was patting him down, sliding his hands across Aramis' body in a fashion that would have been intimate in different company. The search was thorough, groping, and rough. The men watching sniggered to themselves a few times during the show. And that's what it was – a show. Luc seemed to be thoroughly enjoying attempting to humiliate him.

Finally, his roaming hands settled low on Aramis' back.

"Ah, here we are."

Aramis gritted his teeth and refused to look away when Luc lingered without removing the knife he'd found. The stood there, nose to nose, with Luc's hand shallowly dipped into the back of his breeches.

Off to his right, Porthos growled again.

Off to his left, Athos was practically bleeding silent fury into the air.

The men watching sniggered again.

Then, finally, Luc slid the knife free of the hidden sheath and stepped back. He tapped the flat of the small blade against Aramis' cheek with a mocking grin.

"Enjoy yourself, did you?" Aramis taunted.

Luc's grin twisted into a scowl and his hand lashed out, striking with a swift, close-fisted backhand that put Aramis on the ground.

"Take the two Musketeers back to their cell. Kill the other one."

"Wait," Aramis called as he pushed himself up to his knees. "He's a Musketeer, too."

Luc frowned, glancing at Athos and looking uncertain for the first time.

"He doesn't wear the uniform."

"Would have been a fool to keep it on when he was sneakin' in here," Porthos spoke up.

"It's called subtlety," Aramis agreed with a mocking smirk. "You should try it sometime."

Luc stared hard at Athos, obviously trying to decipher the truth of their words. Aramis was wildly impressed that Athos remained completely stoic and unaffected by the inspection.

"Surely three Musketeers are worth more than two," Aramis pressed.

Luc swung his focus back to him.

"What do you know of it?" he spat.

"I know that you took our uniforms – to prove who we are, yes?"

Luc's gaze narrowed.

"Whoever you're working for, they want Musketeers," Aramis guessed, playing on their working theory. "I imagine your benefactor will be pleased with this development."

When Luc chewed his lip in thought, Aramis knew he'd guessed right. This wasn't about he and Porthos, not specifically. It was about the Musketeers as a whole. It was a comforting realization even as it was a horrifying one.

"Very well," Luc agreed. "Take them back to the cellar."

Aramis didn't get a chance to speak again as he was manhandled back towards the stairs.

* * *

Porthos barely kept his feet as he was shoved down the handful of steps into their cell. He turned in time to steady Athos and then together they caught Aramis as he stumbled down last. The door was slammed shut and locked then, leaving them alone.

Aramis shifted away from them and drifted over to rest wearily against the wall. Porthos followed, leaning in to inspect the source of the bloody stain on Aramis' shoulder.

"Did you really not know this had happened?" Porthos asked quietly.

"Heat of battle," Aramis offered as an excuse as he twisted his head to peer down at the wound as well. "Did it go through?"

Porthos used his bound hands to ease Aramis' shirt off his shoulder and inspected his back.

"Yeah," he answered, relieved.

He grimaced as Aramis prodded the area with his fingers. The marksman, however, didn't so much as flinch.

"Lucky," he finally murmured.

Porthos cocked an eyebrow, but it was Athos who spoke.

" _Un_ lucky?" Athos put in dryly from where he still stood near the stairs, watching them. "You  _do_  realize you've been shot."

Aramis chuckled, looking unreasonably amused given the circumstances.

"It missed the bone," he explained, "and hit nothing but meat and muscle. I'll be fine."

"Still bleedin' a lot, though," Porthos reminded.

"Here." Athos appeared next to them, pulling at a scarf wrapped around his neck.

Even with their hands bound, the three of them managed to get the scarf tied securely around Aramis' shoulder. Porthos slid wearily down the wall and, a moment later, Aramis followed him. Athos, however, stepped back, drifting across the small room to sit across from them.

"That was quick thinking," their new companion commented suddenly. "Thank you."

Porthos blinked in confusion. Next to him, Aramis seemed similarly bewildered.

Athos looked back and forth between them.

"Naming me a Musketeer," he explained.

"Oh," Porthos nodded and then nudged Aramis, "that  _was_  quick thinkin'," he praised.

"Well, I couldn't very well have let them kill him, could I?" Aramis replied, dropping his head back against the wall and letting his eyes fall closed. "However, if you besmirch the good name of the Musketeers, you'll have me to answer to."

Porthos rolled his eyes because Aramis didn't look particularly threatening at the moment. Athos, however, remained straight faced.

"I will honor the title for as long as I bear it," he promised, but the dryness of his tone had Porthos wondering if there was a bit of hidden humor hidden beneath the words.

Aramis, apparently, decided there  _was_ , because he chuckled.

Porthos grinned, too, and flexed his hands, wishing the ropes were a bit looser.

"Might as well cut these off, eh?" he suggested, thinking of the blade currently digging into his hip where he'd barely managed to get it hidden before they were disarmed.

"They don't know we're armed," Athos pointed out logically. "If they check on us, being unbound would give away our one advantage."

Porthos saw Aramis draw his head forward out of the corner of his eye, the same impressed quirk to his brow as Porthos knew he wore. They hadn't mentioned the second knife before now and hadn't counted on Athos even remembering Porthos had been wielding it. Athos was apparently more than just a skilled swordsman – he was also a shrewd thinker.

"You do, of course, have a point," Aramis agreed. "But the knife is not our only advantage."

Porthos nodded, easily tracking Aramis' train of thought.

"We've got the lay of the land now," he explained when Athos arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "And the measure of our enemy."

"Luc." Aramis seemed to roll the name over in his mind even as he spoke it. His tone made no attempt to hide his distaste, but it also made Luc sound like a puzzle Aramis was trying to work out.

"It might take a bit to cut ourselves loose though, if it comes to it," Porthos pointed out. "Could demand time we don't have."

Athos tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the truth of Porthos' words.

Aramis was still staring thoughtfully off into space, so Porthos made the decision. He shifted, carefully pulling the blade from his hiding place. He cut himself free first – careful to only make one cut in the rope in case they needed it – and then motioned to Athos. The other man pushed himself up and moved over to crouch in front of Porthos. Porthos cut him free in the same fashion. Then, instead of moving back across the room, he sighed and leaned back against the wall on Porthos' other side. Porthos touched Aramis' arm, waited the moment it took for Aramis to focus on him and then held up the knife.

"Somebody's targeting Musketeers," Aramis stated as Porthos carefully sliced one cord of the rope and unwound it from Aramis' wrists.

"For what purpose?" Athos wondered.

Porthos tossed away the rope and watched worriedly as the marksman carefully rested his right arm against his stomach, cradling it with his left.

"Likely nothin' good," Porthos answered as he sat back.

For a long moment they sat in contemplative silence.

Porthos found his mind drawn back to Savoy, to twenty dead Musketeers. It felt like too much of a coincidence, the timing of it. He slid a cautious glance at Aramis and pitched his voice in a conciliatory tone.

"Do you think this has to do with-"

"No," Aramis cut him off sharply. The haste of his reply suggesting he'd been worrying over the same thing. "That was the Spanish – a thing of chance."

"What was?" Athos asked, leaning forward to look at them both.

"My version of 'unlucky'," Aramis replied darkly before shaking his head and looking away from both of them. Porthos sighed, glancing at Athos. He could see the question there, but it wasn't his story to tell.

"So what do we do?" Porthos asked, hoping to draw Aramis back before he slipped away into memory.

It took longer than Porthos would have liked, but eventually Aramis brought his head back around and reengaged.

"We could let this proceed," he suggested carefully, "to see who hired Luc and his men."

Porthos nodded. He liked the idea of finding out what was going on, of discovering who was responsible. And yet...

"What about him?" he tilted his head towards Athos, who remained impassive but for a slight quirking of his brow.

Aramis titled his head forward to look past Porthos, as if confused about who he was talking about. When all he saw was Athos, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"What  _about_  him?"

Porthos glared as patiently as he could.

"He's a civilian, Aramis. We can't allow him to be put into further danger."

"I put  _myself_  in danger by coming to rescue you both," Athos argued. "So I think that argument is beyond the point of debate."

"Yes,  _about_  that," Aramis leaned forward a bit more to properly regard Athos. "Not that we aren't grateful," he tossed Porthos a look seeking agreement, to which Porthos dutifully nodded, "for your valiant attempt, but why on earth would you do such a thing?"

Athos' expression, already virtually unreadable, shuttered further.

"Why shouldn't I?" he countered.

"The real possibility of being killed, for one," Porthos pointed out obviously.

"The fact that you don't  _know_  either of us," Aramis added, and then something in his tone hardened. "And you couldn't have  _really_  known what you were getting into."

Porthos glanced warily at Aramis. There was a familiar thread of suspicion in his voice now, as if he'd just remembered that he didn't  _trust_  anything or anyone anymore. The flinty look in Aramis' dark gaze warned that Athos was quickly on his way from being an ally to a possible enemy in the marksman's mind.

Porthos turned back to Athos but, other than a slight narrowing of his gaze, he didn't look all that affected by Aramis' sudden turn of attitude.

"Honor demanded I intervene," Athos replied succinctly.

Porthos blinked and swung back around to look at Aramis, gauging his reaction. Honor was a cornerstone of what it meant to be a Musketeer. If there was ever an answer Aramis would identify with, it would be that one.

But Aramis still looked skeptical.

"And for  _honor_ ," Aramis responded suspiciously, "you would risk your life for two strangers?"

"For honor, I have done far more," came the soft, firm reply.

Porthos couldn't have managed a reply to that even if he wanted to. There was a tangible weight to Athos' claim, as if it had already been tested and painfully proven. He studied the man a little closer, noticing for the first time the dark smudges beneath his eyes and the weary set to his shoulders that he was trying desperately to hide. He looked drawn and worn. Once again, Porthos was hit with a wave of familiarity.

"Have we met?" Aramis demanded suddenly, startling Porthos by the parallel vein of their thoughts.

Athos blinked in surprise.

"I don't believe so."

Porthos glanced at Aramis, seeing the marksman's gaze narrowed in the same calculating fashion he used when sighting a distant target.

"Outside The Wren," Aramis declared. "You're the drunk who tried to fight four Red Guards. You were spouting about honor then, too."

Porthos nodded. He vaguely remembered that night two weeks ago. But now that he was looking at Athos, the memory became clearer.

Athos frowned very slightly, that barest downturn of his lips being the only indicator that he was confused. He was studying them both now, obviously searching his memory.

"Being drunk that night does not preclude me from sobriety now," Athos finally stated, slowly and deliberately. "And I assure you, I am quite capable."

Aramis nudged Porthos lightly with his elbow.

"He did fight his way in here unseen. And we both saw how well he did upstairs."

Porthos sighed. All of that was true, but…

"He's still a civilian, Aramis. He's not a Musketeer. We've no right to endanger him further."

"You heard him," Aramis cajoled. "He endangered  _himself_."

Porthos looked fully back at Athos and met his gaze.

"You would willingly risk yourself further? For the sake of honor? This is what you  _want_?"

Athos was silent for several moments before he lifted his chin.

"Yes."

The word hit Porthos like a physical wave, washing away any lingering doubt.

"Then it is  _our_  honor to have you with us," Aramis offered sincerely and with a bit of conspiratorial quirk to his lips. He sounded more like the man Porthos had met that first day in the regiment than he had in weeks.

Athos straightened a bit, shoulders squaring. He offered a tight nod of acceptance.

"So what do we do?" Porthos asked again.

"Somebody needs to get back to Paris and warn Treville," Aramis replied immediately. "If Musketeers are being targeted, he needs to know. We can't afford any more losses."

"But you said we should let this play out, see who's behind it," Porthos reminded warily. He had a horrible feeling he sensed where this was going and he felt his blood boiling before Aramis even replied.

"They only need one Musketeer to make a deal with the man behind this." Aramis' light tone indicated  _exactly_  who he thought that  _one_  should be.

"Aramis…" Porthos warned lowly.

"They'll have to take us out of here at some point," Aramis went on undeterred. "When the moment is right, I'll create a suitable distraction. You'll both use it to get to some horses and flee."

For a stunned moment, Porthos could only stare at him.

"One of you get back to Paris and warn Treville. The other can stay close and keep an eye on things, follow where they take me if need be."

"And if this mysterious benefactor shoots you on sight?" Athos put in dryly, but there was an undercurrent of frustration simmering in his tone.

"Well," Aramis shrugged, "then the fates would have only been collecting their due."

Porthos' patience, having been tried and tested to its breaking point over the last weeks, shattered.

He spun up to his knees and wrapped his hands around Aramis' shirt. He stood, ignoring his wounded leg, and dragged Aramis up, slamming him against the stone wall. Aramis paled a bit as pain undoubtedly coursed through his shoulder, but he didn't flinch or make a sound – and that only incensed Porthos further.

"Don't you  _dare_ ," he hissed, pressing in until his nose was only a breath from Aramis'. "Don't you dare talk like that. Like your life is forfeit."

"Porthos…" Aramis started in a pacifying tone.

"No!" Porthos shook him once, firmly. "You were  _meant_  to survive, Aramis."

Aramis went still, eyes wide. From the floor, Athos watched them warily, but Porthos barely noticed.

"I'm not leaving you behind," Porthos stated firmly, tone unyielding. "It's just not happenin'."

"You'll be watching from a distance, Porthos. Hardly leaving me behind."

Porthos tightened his hands in Aramis' shirt.

" _Not. Happening._ Whatever comes, whatever we do, we do it  _together_. Nothing you can say will make me abandon you."

He saw it then, hidden deep in Aramis' eyes – a glimmer of something that gave Porthos sudden hope.

"I'm not him, Aramis," Porthos insisted desperately, willing –  _begging_  – Aramis believe him. "Haven't I proven that to you? After everything we've been through, can you still not trust our brotherhood? Can you not believe that I will remain by your side, as I've been since this all started? I'm not him, Aramis!  _I'm not him._ "

Then he saw it happen.

He saw the last thread of resistance and doubt break to pieces in Aramis' eyes.

* * *

Aramis hadn't been surprised that Porthos had reacted badly to his suggestion. He  _had_  been surprised when the big man hauled him up from the ground and slammed him roughly up against the wall. He'd been even more surprised by the sheer weight of emotion and urgency in Porthos' voice. Porthos was desperate for Aramis to  _hear_  him, to believe his words.

To trust him.

 _I'm not him_.

How many times had Porthos said that? How many times had he said those other words; the words Aramis had come to rely on?

_I'm here._

He had been so angry with Porthos. Angry because Porthos was the only one who saw him, who refused to allow him to hide behind his mask. He had been angry because it shouldn't have been Porthos.

But it had been.

And suddenly, like a wave finally cresting after building for far too long, that simple fact took on a brand new meaning.

Porthos had seen him when no one else had wanted to look.

Porthos had stayed with him when no one else had seen how much he dreaded being alone.

Porthos had stripped away his mask when everyone else had been relieved by it.

Porthos had been there when no one else had.

And Porthos was still here.

He remembered, then, what their friendship had meant before Savoy had destroyed him – before Marsac's betrayal had ripped apart the foundation of everything he believed in.

Their friendship, their  _brotherhood –_ so instant and easy _–_ had felt like going home. It had felt familiar in a way nothing else had since he'd last been in his mother's presence.

 _I'm here_.

Porthos had never left him, no matter how much he begged him to.

Porthos, he realized with sudden clarity, never would.

_I'm not him._

Marsac had taught him that brotherhood was fleeting and that it wasn't to be relied on or trusted. But now, with danger so clearly before them, Porthos had not faltered. Porthos had not fled. When presented with a route to safety, he had angrily refused if it meant leaving Aramis behind.

And now, trapped as effectively by Porthos' watery gaze as he was by the hands fisted in his shirt, Aramis felt something in his chest loosen for the first time since he'd realized what Marsac had done.

He had thought, sitting alone in his room, feeling lost and broken, that bearing the weight of Savoy in solitude was meant to be his penance. Why else would he alone have survived? Why else would everyone who  _should_  have cared turned their backs on his suffering?

He now saw that he had been blind.

He had thought he had been alone.

But he had never been, not since the inn in Savoy.

Survival was the penance for his failure, and the burden of those memories would always be his to bear and no one else's.

But perhaps he was not meant to survive  _alone._

Why else would God have given him Porthos?

How had he not  _seen_  it?

"Aramis?" Porthos was still there, a solid presence pressing him roughly against the wall.

"Porthos," he whispered, his tone a tumbling mixture of shocked realization and aching apology.

"I'm here," Porthos assured fiercely, hands loosening in Aramis' shirt. One slid up to grip the back of Aramis' neck, the other wrapped around his good shoulder.

Aramis couldn't find words. So he did the only thing he could.

He nodded, at last accepting the promise folded into those words.

Porthos' hands tightened and then he sobbed out a breath, crushing Aramis to him in a startlingly realistic impression of a bear hug.

"I'm sorry," Aramis offered hoarsely into Porthos' shoulder. And he was. He was sorry it had taken him so long to believe him. He was sorry he'd put Porthos through so much to get to this point. He was sorry he had been so unworthy of the brotherhood he and Porthos shared.

"No." Porthos pulled back and held tight to the side of his neck so that Aramis had no choice but to meet his eyes. " _No_. You were protectin' yourself," Porthos excused. "I just hope you know now that you don't have to protect yourself from  _me_."

Aramis could only nod again.

Porthos' answering smile was a mixture of sadness, relief, and joy. Aramis couldn't help but return it. Porthos released him, but only long enough to adjust his grip and help Aramis ease back down to sitting. Then Porthos slid back down to his place next to him, his shoulder brushing solidly against Aramis'.

"So what do we do?" Aramis asked quietly.

"We stay together," Athos insisted suddenly. " _All_  of us."

Both Aramis and Porthos looked at him in surprise. In all honesty, Aramis had forgotten he was even there. He found himself sliding a self conscious look towards Porthos as he realized Athos had just witnessed his moment of vulnerability. The larger man returned the glance.

"I can't escape alone and leave you both here. If they move you, I'll never find you again. Either we all stay, or we all go," Athos went on.

Aramis looked at Porthos, eyebrow arched in question.

"We need to find out who's behind this," Porthos reminded.

"We need to warn Treville," Aramis countered softly. "We can't risk any of the others being caught off guard as we were."

As he and the twenty-one others in Savoy had been. Even if the two weren't in any way connected, the similarities were there. The idea of any more Musketeers being lost because of an  _unknown_ threat was too much. Aramis couldn't take it, not if there was something he could do. Maybe it wasn't the right choice, but it was suddenly the only one he could live with. Treville and the others  _had_  to be warned.

"Which is more important?" Athos asked reasonably, but the careful tone of his voice suggested he sensed at least  _something_  of the razor's edge Aramis was balanced on. "Finding the source of this entire operation, or warning your comrades?"

"If we find the man behind this, we stand a chance of stopping it – now, before it goes any further," Porthos reasoned.

"Or, as Athos pointed out, this man could shoot us on sight," Aramis countered. "We don't know his motivation and until we do, the risk is too great. If we're killed, no one will remain to warn the others."

Aramis had to close his eyes against the sudden picture of bloodstained snow and frozen bodies that flashed across his vision.

Porthos sighed, but nodded.

"So?"

"We escape," Aramis decided. "Together."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Thirteen
> 
> #together - and so Les Insperables are born. I'm sure you're all a bit relieved Aramis has finally taken a step closer to recovery. Trusting Porthos again was huge for him, and I can't help but smile about it.
> 
> I'll give you cyber hugs if you drop me a line down down below :D
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "I'm warning you," Luc growled.
> 
> "You're warning me?" Aramis taunted and then laughed mockingly. "If you'd not stolen my boots, I'd be positively quaking in them. 'Warning' me," he snorted derisively. "No wonder your men are more afraid of me, a bound and injured man, than of you. I don't issue warnings," Aramis' voice dropped chillingly. "I merely act."


	14. Brother, Let Me Be Your Fortress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Thirteen: shanachie, Lady_Neve, issa, HLN, Thimblerig, and Scarlett77

 

_There is no love like the love for a brother. There is no love like the love from a brother.  
_ _**Astrid Alauda** _

* * *

_May 7, 1625  
_ _Cellar, unknown location_

* * *

Athos folded his arms more tightly across his chest, trying to ward off the coldness of their prison. He stared across the dark cellar to where Aramis was sleeping. The young Musketeer – and he seemed at times  _so_  very young – was curled on his left side, back pressed into the corner, facing the locked door. As he'd been drifting off, Porthos had pressed their one dagger solidly into Aramis' hand and there it had remained, clutched defensively even in sleep.

Athos found himself wondering about Aramis' past not for the first time since he'd met him. Something had happened to him, that much was obvious, and whatever it was, it had been recent. Aramis was still suffering through the fallout of it.

Not unlike Athos in that respect.

That thought had him wishing vainly for a bottle of wine, or brandy, or  _anything_. Had it only been two months since it had happened? It felt at times as if a lifetime had passed. Others, it felt as if it had happened only yesterday.

She haunted him now, as was his due. But it wasn't only her. Thomas' ghost hounded his steps as well, demanding to know why Athos hadn't saved him, why he'd let her murder him.

They were with him always, so it seemed, but they were always the loudest in the dark. When the light of the day gave way to shadow, they crept up on him – his wife and brother.

Both now dead because of him – one by his hand and one by his failure.

The alcohol seemed to quiet them occasionally. It made the nights more bearable. If he drank enough, sometimes he could even sleep without dreaming.

A laugh floated through the air around him – a light, beautiful laugh.

Her laugh.

Athos stiffened, closing his eyes against the sound of her voice calling his name.

His hand clasped at the locket around his neck and he squeezed it until it was nearly melded with his palm. They had been so happy, so in love. Had he really been such a fool? Had it all been a lie?

Maybe not. Maybe Thomas  _had_ …

He banished the thought with a sharp breath.

Thomas would never have done what she had claimed, not to any woman, least of all to his brother's wife. She had lied to him then, with his brother's blood on her hands. She must have been lying all along.

Good God, he needed a drink.

"Hey, you alright?"

Athos snapped his eyes open, looking across the small room to Porthos, who was watching him curiously.

"Fine," he assured stiffly.

Porthos hummed doubtfully, gaze shifting to Aramis when the young man shivered in his sleep. He'd been doing that more and more often, Athos distantly realized. The room was chilled, yes, but not  _that_  chilled.

"Damn the cold," Porthos lamented quietly, hand drifting towards Aramis' shoulder but withdrawing before he made contact.

Athos latched onto that, desperate to focus on something other than his own demons.

"What happened?" he asked, moving a bit to settle his back more comfortably against the wall.

Porthos looked up at him, confused.

"To Aramis," Athos clarified.

Porthos eyed him warily now.

"Something did," Athos insisted. "I'd be blind not to notice."

Porthos shifted where he was sitting, gaze falling down to rest on Aramis' head.

Athos followed his line of sight. He couldn't really see it in the moonlit darkness of the cell, but he remembered the scar. It had been impossible to miss, after all.

"That's his story," Porthos finally answered, "not mine."

Athos frowned. As distractions went, that one was short lived.

"You should try to sleep," Porthos suggested.

"So should you,' Athos retorted swiftly.

"The only way I could get  _him_  to sleep was if I promised to keep watch," Porthos explained quietly, eyes glancing towards Aramis again. The sleeping man shivered.

Athos tightened his own arms around himself, imagining the room had grown colder.

"Get some rest, Athos," Porthos advised again.

The problem was that Athos was fairly certain sleep would elude him. It often did. He closed his eyes anyway, trying to focus on something,  _anything_ other than the memories that haunted him.

There was their plan to consider, of course.

It was…adequate.

Aramis, much to Porthos' very vocal displeasure, would play the key role. They'd all agreed, though, on their course of action and had then settled in to wait.

And so they had… For  _hours_.

Aramis had sat patiently, resting, eyes fixed on the door for most of that time. But even sitting quietly, his exhaustion had been tangible. It had been somewhat of a relief when he had started drifting off an hour ago. He obviously was in desperate need of rest and, though his shoulder had stopped bleeding hours ago, he had still been  _shot_. It had taken one rather lengthy whispered discussion between the young man and Porthos before Aramis had sought out his corner in the cell. Porthos had followed after him, sitting casually near Aramis' feet once he'd turned over the dagger.

It was as if the two of them were linked somehow, bound by an invisible tether. They'd hardly strayed out of arm's reach since their confrontation when they'd first started strategizing.

Athos' thoughts shifted, remembering that moment of charged revelation between the two Musketeers. He didn't know what had led to that moment, or even the full weight of  _what_  that moment had meant. But even if he had been blind it would not have stopped him from seeing that something dramatic had shifted. He wasn't sure what it was, but Aramis had seemed somehow steadier afterwards and Porthos had seemed lighter.

 _I'm not him_.

Porthos had said that simple phrase so many times. But who was 'him'? What had he done to merit the hate in Porthos' voice or the pain in Aramis' eyes? It all led back, Athos suspected, to whatever had happened to the young Musketeer – to the thing that dragged him from reality during combat, that led him to forget where he was and who he was meant to be fighting. Remembering the completely  _lost_  look in Aramis' eyes during their battle upstairs brought a shiver to Athos' spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

A sudden shout tore through the quiet of the night. Athos' eyes flashed open and his heart seized in his chest.

He looked straight across the cell to the source, watching through wide eyes as Aramis shouted in…Spanish? He was writhing as if fighting off some unseen enemy. The small blade in his clenched hand glinted dangerously in the meager moonlight.

Athos watched Porthos shift to kneel in front of Aramis.

"Aramis!" the large man called, catching the wrist with the waving blade before it could do any harm. "Wake up!"

Aramis did.

But very little changed. He fought Porthos now, breathing harsh and panicked as he tried to break the hold the larger man had him in.

"Easy!" Porthos soothed. "Hey, it's me! It's Porthos!"

Like a spell had been cast, Aramis' struggles slowed.

"Porthos?"

Athos felt his throat go tight. That  _tone_. That tone was nothing but youth and vulnerability; it was fear and trust all rolled into one. Athos knew that tone, he had heard it before.

Suddenly, he wasn't in the cell anymore.

" _Ollie?" Thomas reached for him and he met his little brother's hand willingly._

" _It's all right, Thom," he soothed. "I'm here."_

It had been years since anyone had called him by his given name. He and Thomas had loved playing soldiers when they were young, going so far as to choose nom-de-guerres for each other. Thomas had been too young to think of anything more imaginative than their own last name, but soon enough the name stuck and he started introducing himself as Athos instead of Olivier. Only in times of great distress of fear did Thomas call him Ollie.

Athos blinked rapidly, trying to separate the past from the present, memory from reality.

"I'm here, 'Mis," Porthos murmured.

Aramis' struggles stilled completely.

" _Mamá_ …" Aramis whispered breathlessly. His eyes had closed and he sounded anguished and heartbroken.

"Aramis?" Porthos called worriedly.

Aramis' eyes opened again, latching onto Porthos with painful vulnerability.

Athos watched, feeling like an intruder. But he couldn't look away. Aramis couldn't be much older than Thomas had been. So young. So full of life and potential, only to be struck down before he could truly  _live_. All because of her… Athos clenched his jaw and banished that train of thought. He focused again on Aramis, on the hand he had twisted in Porthos' sleeve.

This was real. These two men were _real_. They weren't a product of his guilty, tortured mind.

He focused on them – on reality.

"Did you mean it?" Aramis asked, eyes wide and so young. He blinked owlishly, obviously still trapped in some place between wakefulness and sleep.

"Mean what?" Porthos wondered as he casually slid the knife from Aramis' increasingly lax grip.

"You're here?" He sounded so hopeful but at the same time so  _scared_.

Athos frowned and he saw Porthos go still.

Aramis shivered almost violently.

"Where are you Aramis?" Porthos asked gently.

"Don't go," Aramis pleaded, his hand turning white where it was fisted in Porthos' shirt. "Don't leave me here."

"Aramis," Porthos was trying to sound stern, but Athos could hear the trembling emotion in his voice, "you're not in Savoy." The large man brushed a hand over the crown of Aramis' head, through his hair and then down to his neck, where he let it linger.

The touch seemed to clear something in Aramis' gaze.

"Porthos?"

"Yeah, 'Mis, I'm here."

Aramis blinked and the hand around Porthos' sleeve loosened. Athos let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and watched Porthos sigh out a breath of his own, folding forward until his forehead bumped Aramis'.

"You won't leave." Aramis said it like it was a fact. He stated it as if it were a point he was proving to himself. Porthos shook his head where his forehead was still pressed to Aramis'.

"No. Never."

"Marsac left."

Athos frowned.

 _Marsac_.

Marsac, he realized with sudden clarity, was 'him'.

Porthos sat back slowly, hand never straying from Aramis' neck. Athos, apparently, wasn't the only one immediately concerned by the mixture of confusion, heartbreak, and anger in Aramis' voice.

"I know he did," Porthos replied. "But I won't."

Aramis held his gaze and then nodded, accepting the promise.

Porthos shifted, sliding to sit right next to the smaller man, so close their shoulders were pressed together.

Athos watched them, feeling an unexpected rush of longing.

He had been a brother once. He knew what it looked like, what it  _felt_  like. He found, as he watched the two before him, that he missed that feeling fiercely.

He missed Thomas. He missed being a brother.

His throat tightened and he looked away.

"Did I wake you?"

The guilt-ridden question had Athos dragging his gaze back to the men across from him. Aramis was watching him with wide, overly bright, eyes, still looking too young and shaken. It pulled at some latent instinct he thought had died with Thomas.

"No," he assured quietly, wanting to do what he could put the younger man at ease. "I wasn't sleeping."

"Still," Aramis studied him, "I must have startled you."

"It was hardly your doing," Athos countered but Aramis didn't look convinced. "Everyone has their own demons," he found himself continuing, unable to fight the urge to ease the guilt and vulnerability in Aramis' eyes. "For some people they're louder than others - stronger, harder to beat back. But everyone has them all the same."

He would know, after all. His demons, it felt like at times, were the loudest and strongest of them all.

Athos suddenly found himself the subject of two stares.

Aramis was looking at him as if he'd just realized there was a kinship between them, some sort of shared darkness.

Porthos was looking at him like he had suddenly sprouted a halo and should be declared a saint.

Feeling uncomfortable, Athos shrugged a shoulder and averted his gaze. He'd only spoken the truth, after all, not some grand, new revelation. After a few quiet moments, he felt their gazes shift away, refocusing on each other instead.

"It's fine, Porthos," Aramis insisted after a while.

Athos glanced back in time to see Porthos withdrawing his hands from the makeshift bandage binding Aramis' shoulder.

"It's bleedin' again," the larger man shot back, though somehow he sounded both gentle and accusing all at once.

"And it will stop again," Aramis assured.

Athos watched with a growing frown as Porthos pressed a hand to Aramis' forehead only to have it batted away.

"You feel a little warm," Porthos realized with a worried scowl.

"I think that's you, actually. I'm feeling quite  _cold_ ," Aramis retorted, cradling his wounded arm to his abdomen and pressing his back into the corner. He pulled his knees up and seemed to shrink before their eyes.

"Infection?" Porthos fretted, undeterred.

Aramis sighed.

"I don't think so, not yet at least."

"But soon?" Porthos frowned.

"Well it's a  _musket ball_  wound, Porthos." Aramis shrugged his good shoulder dismissively. "With nothing to clean it, eventual infection is inevitable, really…" Aramis trailed off suddenly, a frown marring his features.

"What is it?" Porthos demanded.

"Infection."

Porthos glanced over at Athos, as if he would miraculously have hidden insight into Aramis' mind, despite having only known him for a day.

"There was no infection," Aramis stated distantly, eyes unfocused as he stared across the room.

"Yes, we've been over that, Aramis," Porthos pointed out carefully.

"No," Aramis' focus snapped back like a whip, "not now. Before, in Savoy. There was no infection." It wasn't a question. Aramis apparently already knew the truth.

Porthos tilted his head curiously.

"Yeah. You took a fever, but the physician found no infection in your wounds."

"How?" Aramis sounded bewildered and skeptical.

Athos looked back and forth between them, trying to follow the conversation despite the many pieces of information he was lacking.

Porthos frowned in confusion.

"How many days was I out there, Porthos?" Aramis asked deliberately.

"Best guess…a bit more than five."

Athos watched Aramis pale a bit.

"Five days?" he asked breathlessly.

Porthos nodded warily.

"You don't remember?" the larger man asked carefully.

Aramis shook his head, the fingers of his left hand crossing his face to ghost over something on the right side of his head. The scar.

"Five days and no infection?" Aramis challenged. "My leg, my head, my side? Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

Porthos' forehead crinkled as he studied Aramis silently for a moment. When he finally responded, his voice was carefully controlled.

"Your wounds were treated, Aramis. They had been cleaned and dressed. Though, after five days of dirty bandages, the physician was still surprised no infection had set in."

But Aramis didn't seem to be listening anymore.

The widening of Aramis' eyes would have been comical if he hadn't looked so  _stricken_  by this new information. Athos watched with rising concern as the rest of the color leeched out of Aramis' face. The younger man's right hand, mindless of his wounded shoulder, rose to press against the side of his head.

"Aramis?" Porthos leaned towards him, hands hovering but not touching. Athos, surprisingly, found his own worry echoing what he heard in Porthos' voice.

Aramis' eyes were moving rapidly back and forth, tight lines of pain marking their corners. Then, quite suddenly, his breath caught in a gasp.

"Aramis?" Porthos tried again, this time his hand landed on Aramis' shoulder. Like his touch was electrified, Aramis shuddered, blinking rapidly and focusing back on Porthos.

"I didn't do it," he breathed. "It wasn't me."

"Do what?" Athos asked before he could bite it back. He realized, then, that he had leaned forward.

Aramis' gaze shifted to his.

"Treat my wounds," he answered simply. He held Athos' gaze for a moment longer before shifting back to look at Porthos. "It was him."

Athos' frown matched Porthos'.

"It was Marsac." Aramis sounded absolutely certain.

"Aramis…" Porthos shook his head slowly, brow creasing doubtfully.

"I remember now, Porthos," Aramis stated firmly. "I woke up _away_  from the battle ground, not  _in_  it. I was hidden deeply in the trees." He touched his head again. "My wounds were already tended."

Porthos just stared.

"It was Marsac," Aramis insisted. "It could  _only_  have been Marsac. He was the only one left, besides me. He  _saved_  me, Porthos."

Fury lit Porthos' expression.

"He  _abandoned_ you," the larger man countered. "No matter what he did before that, he still left you to die, Aramis."

"But he saved me first," Aramis argued, leaning forward and twisting a hand in Porthos' sleeve as if he could physically will him to understand. "Don't you  _see?_  He must have left the fight to get me to safety! Whatever happened after was because of that moment,  _that choice_. He saved me and condemned himself."

"What are you talking about?" Porthos demanded, shaking his head.

Without realizing he'd moved across the small room, Athos now hovered only a few feet away.

"He didn't go back, Porthos," Aramis revealed quietly.

Porthos went a shade paler and Athos unconsciously drifted closer.

"I'm the reason he left the fight at all," Aramis explained. "And then, when he realized what he'd done, he couldn't bear the shame of it. I deserved to be left there. It was  _my fault_."

All at once, all the pieces fit into place in Athos' mind.

He'd heard whispers and rumors in the taverns of a large number of Musketeers killed brutally and unexpectedly.

 _Savoy_ , the whispers had reported. It had happened in Savoy.

" _You're not in Savoy_ ," Porthos had assured Aramis only minutes ago.

The rumors had blamed it on the Spanish, a raiding party.

" _That was the Spanish – a thing of chance_." Aramis' own words.

Athos' gaze was transfixed on Aramis' pale face as he realized now the weight of every little truth he'd learned.

" _Don't leave me here."_

" _Marsac left."_

" _I know he did…but I won't."_

" _How many days was I out there, Porthos?"_

" _He didn't go back."_

" _He abandoned you… He left you to die, Aramis."_

" _I'm not him."_

" _I deserved to be left there."_

" _It was my fault."_

Then, without ever having met him, Athos found himself hating Marsac with a fierce, burning passion.

* * *

Porthos was reeling.

_It was my fault._

He wanted to shake him. He wanted to hunt Marsac down and rip him apart. He wanted to yell and scream until Aramis took it back. He wanted to beat his hands against the wall till they bled because it was all so  _wrong_.

In the end, he reached forward to grip the back of Aramis' neck.

"What Marsac did was  _his_  choice. You are not to blame for it."

"I should have stopped him."

"Aramis, you were  _wounded_. You were half out of your head  _days_  later when we found you. I can only imagine how muddled you were then. What could you have done? In that state?"

"I could have tried. He saved me and I let him go."

Porthos closed his eyes and heard a fevered, whispered plea ghost across his memory.

 _Don't leave me here_.

Those words suggested Aramis  _had_  tried, but had been ignored.

"I failed him, just like I failed the rest of them."

Porthos' eyes snapped open.

"You wha-"

But then Aramis stiffened, eyes sharpening and his hand cutting through the air to silence him. Then Porthos heard it too.

"Someone's coming," Athos announced quietly, rising and moving swiftly to collect the abandoned ropes. "Quickly," he tossed Porthos two of the long lines. "And hide the knife."

Porthos, remembering their plan, pressed the knife back into Aramis' hand and watched him spirit it away to hide in his breeches against his hip as Porthos had done before. Then he held out his hands to Porthos.

He tied the rope securely, but not tightly. Aramis would be able to get his hands free with only a little effort. Athos then did the same to him and he and Aramis worked together to bind Athos last.

They had only just finished when the lock turned in the door.

Athos spun immediately, standing like a sentry between them and Luc, who was leading several men into their cell. Porthos pushed up to a crouch and then hauled Aramis up with him. Immediately, the marksman wavered and Porthos tightened the hands he had on his arm.

He wished he knew if Aramis was already playing his part or if the weakness was real. The uncertainty of that had him swallowing thickly as he turned to face Luc and his men.

"Time to go," Luc announced, motioning his men forward.

Porthos watched Athos' shoulders tighten almost unnoticeably. He had told them it was to be two days before the exchange at an old church. That had been yesterday. It must be time to move them.

"Moving us in the middle of the night? A bit paranoid, don't you think?" Aramis commented as they were all prodded and pulled towards the door.

Porthos set his friend a sidelong look and then glanced up to meet Athos' gaze as he looked back.

It was starting.

"I suppose you wouldn't want your benefactor to be kept waiting," Aramis went on brazenly, fixing Luc with a mocking glare. "Best  _you_  do the waiting, hmm? At least you know your place."

As they'd expected, Luc's expression twitched in annoyance.

"So let me get this straight. He's got the money. He decides when he shows up. All you've got are three violent hostages who, if I'm guessing correctly, have already proven a bit more trouble than they're worth." Aramis shook his head in mock sympathy.

Porthos pulled at the hands leading him when Aramis purposefully – or perhaps it wasn't purposeful at all – tripped on the stairs. It was only Luc's quick grab at Aramis' right elbow that kept him from falling completely.

Aramis went white, jaw tightening and eyes narrowing as Luc hauled him up the last two stairs and shoved him forward. Aramis stumbled over his own feet and shouldered into Porthos' back.

Porthos yanked his arms free of the hands holding him and turned, using his elbow and shoulder to nudge Aramis up until he could see his face.

The marksman was still frighteningly pale, but when he met Porthos' gaze, his eyes were clear and focused. Before Porthos' relief could even settle, Aramis was giving him a wink and then lowering his head and moaning.

"What's wrong with you?" Luc demanded, then glared at Porthos. "What's wrong with him?"

"One of your men shot him," Athos reminded blandly. "Such a thing tends to take a toll."

"It does at that," Aramis agreed breathily as he straightened. "I don't recommend it," he offered conversationally to Porthos. But then he turned to Luc. "You on the other hand…"

"Enough of that mouth of yours. Shut it before I shut it for you." Luc solidly shoved Aramis, on his  _right_  shoulder. Aramis' jaw clenched, hissing out a breath, but he kept his feet.

Then they were moving again, down the short hallway and up the stairs to the anteroom outside the main room where their previous escape attempt had been thwarted. It wasn't until they were being led towards the door that Aramis spoke again.

"You could let us go, you know," he pointed out casualy, as if discussing the weather.

Luc answered by giving him another shove – again to his right shoulder.

Aramis, already too pale for Porthos' liking, looked positively ghostly for a moment. But then he seemed to breathe through it and continued with a thick swallow.

"A change of heart is not so unheard of," Aramis pressed, but then feigned sudden realization. "Ah wait, mercenaries like you lack a vital requirement for such a thing," he goaded.

Porthos saw something in Luc's face twitch, but he didn't otherwise react.

"I suppose the change of heart will be left to me, then," Aramis sighed airily. "You see, normally I'd kill all of you by the end of this without even a flutter of regret." He cast a glance around then, at the handful of men tasked with escorting them. The sheer  _confidence_  in his casual tone visibly put several of them on edge and had them exchanging wary glances.

Porthos eyed the door. Almost there.

"But perhaps I'll spare a few of you," Aramis allowed magnanimously. "But  _who?_ " he wondered idly as Luc shoved him roughly again. "Perhaps if one of you were to give me  _reason_  to spare you…" he trailed off meaningfully.

Luc had finally had enough. He wrapped a hand around Aramis' shoulder and pulled him around, driving him backwards until his back hit the wall next to the door.

"Hold your tongue,  _Musketeer_ ," he hissed, spitting the title like it was a curse, "or I'll cut it out."

"A bit worried?" Aramis goaded breathlessly, ignoring the threat and whatever pain he was likely in. "Are you afraid some of your men might take me up on my offer?"

Porthos shifted his weight, spreading his feet a little wider, preparing himself. Ahead of him, Athos was subtly doing the same.

"I'm warning you," Luc growled.

"You're  _warning_  me?" Aramis taunted and then laughed mockingly. "If you'd not stolen my boots, I'd be positively quaking in them.  _'Warning_ ' me," he snorted derisively. "No wonder your men are more afraid of  _me_ , a bound and injured man, than of you. I don't issue  _warnings_ ," Aramis' voice dropped chillingly. "I merely  _act_."

Luc's fisted hand slammed solidly into Aramis' right shoulder. Aramis faltered, sliding partway down the wall before catching himself.

"How is that for  _'acting_ '," Luc hissed.

"Not bad," Aramis gasped through gritted teeth. "Still, if you only act because it's what  _I_  would do, I'm not sure it counts."

An open backhand put Aramis on the ground.

Porthos shifted slowly, working his hands free of his bonds as the men guarding them focused on the altercation near the door and drifted unconsciously towards it. Athos, he knew, would be doing the same.

Aramis laughed mockingly, pushing himself up to his knees as he braced himself on his bound hands.

"Better," he praised Luc. "I  _almost_  didn't see that one coming."

Luc growled and hauled Aramis up. His hand patted around Aramis' waist until he paused, slowly extracting the knife Aramis had hidden.

"Aren't you full of surprises," Luc growled.

Porthos eased behind the nearest guard.

"You were trying to distract me?" Luc accused. "So you could get to this?"

"I  _was_  trying to distract you," Aramis agreed as Luc held him against the wall. "But not for  _that_."

And Porthos moved.

He wrapped his hands around the man before him – one on his chin, one on the crown of his head – and twisted.  _Hard_. The man fell with a crunching of bone and Porthos snatched the dead man's sword from his belt as he dropped.

Next to him, Athos had stolen a dagger from a back sheath. He used it to kill the man and then stole his sword.

Their attack drew Luc's attention.

Then it was Aramis' turn.

His method was simple in the end, if brutal. Porthos couldn't help but grin in amusement when Aramis' knee caught Luc between the legs. The mercenary leader faltered and Aramis pressed his advantage, quickly ridding himself of his bonds and stripping his little knife from Luc's grip. Turning the man, he wrapped an arm around his chest to hold him captive and pressing the small, but deadly, blade to his throat.

"Shall we test the loyalty of your men, Luc?" Aramis taunted. "What do you think they will choose now?"

"Put down your weapons," Athos ordered as he and Porthos both moved towards the door. "And we will allow you to live."

"Maybe  _he_  will," Porthos growled with a feral grin. "I'm feelin' a bit vengeful at the moment."

The men all looked to Luc, hesitating.

"If they escape," Luc hissed, "none of you get paid."

A vicious hunger stole across the mercenaries' faces.

"Gentlemen," Aramis urged his companions as he shifted towards the door, dragging Luc with him.

"Time to go," Athos agreed as the men advanced.

Porthos kicked the door open and led the way out, blinking into the early light of dawn.

And came face to face with another group of mercenaries waiting by the horses.

"Uh…" he called over his shoulder as Athos filed out after him. Aramis was retreating backwards, keeping Luc between him and the men inside. "We've got a bit of a problem."

"The rest of the men," Athos stated blandly.

"Miscalculated a bit, did we?" Aramis realized as his back pressed into theirs.

"A bit," Porthos admitted.

"How many?" Aramis asked.

"Four," Athos answered. "As well as the three inside."

Porthos watched the group of men slowly approach, leaving the horses tethered behind them.

"We can't take all of them," Porthos pointed out lowly. "Not if we want to keep our friend Luc here for questioning."

Aramis hummed his agreement.

"We could just kill him," Aramis suggested with a feral grin. "Fight our way out."

"It would increase our chances," Athos agreed.

"Kill me and you'll never find out who hired me," Luc threatened, voice strained as Aramis had not loosened the cutting pressure with the knife.

"He's right, you know," Athos muttered. "We don't know where the exchange was to happen."

"An old church, you said," Porthos reminded.

"Dear Porthos, there are far more 'old churches' in France than you seem to think," Aramis interjected.

Before Porthos could reply, there was a grunt from Aramis and a hiss from Luc and then the two of them were suddenly locked in a struggle over the knife.

The men facing Porthos started to advance and he could only assume the men inside would be doing the same.

He longed to look over his shoulder to see how Aramis was faring, but couldn't risk taking his eyes off the encroaching enemy.

Aramis suddenly cursed  _loudly_  and the pressure of his back against theirs disappeared. A moment later there was a slamming door and a crash of old wooden crates that had been stacked outside.

"That should hold them for…not long," Aramis told them breathlessly as he reappeared behind them.

"Well then," Athos put in blandly before lunging forward.

Then it was nothing but steel and blood as they fought the four men facing them. Athos took two of them, Porthos one, and the fourth went for Aramis, who was armed with nothing but his little knife.

By the time Porthos had dispatched his enemy and was able to check on the marksman, Aramis was  _somehow_  lazily wiping the blood off his little knife on the breeches of the dead man at his feet.

Even now, Aramis still managed to surprise him.

"Let's go!" Athos called even as he felled his final opponent with a sharp, precise lunge. He led the way to a group of horses tethered to their left. Porthos followed, clambering up into the first saddle he came to. Athos appeared on a horse next to him, but Aramis did not.

Porthos wheeled his horse around, searching.

Aramis was cutting the reigns of the rest of the horses, shouting to startle them into fleeing. Porthos urged his horse closer, using its bulk to aid the process.

Soon all the horses but one were galloping away.

Aramis shot him a grateful grin and ran for the final horse.

He was halfway into the saddle when the door to the little house burst open and a shot rang out.

There was a shout and Porthos didn't know whether it came from him or Athos.

Then Aramis was falling.

It took several moments of shocked horror for Porthos to realize that Aramis' horse was falling, too. The animal was screeching pitifully in pain as it crumpled to the ground.

It wasn't Aramis who had been shot.

Porthos felt his heart start beating again and watched through wide eyes as Aramis pushed up from where he'd sprawled into the dirt, only narrowly avoiding being crushed by the horse's weight.

It was Athos who saw Luc.

"Aramis!" he shouted in warning, throwing his own stolen sword towards the marksman.

Aramis caught it deftly in his left hand and turned, bringing it up just in time to block Luc's descending blade.

* * *

The force of the blow sent Aramis down into the dirt, forcing him to either brace himself with his bad arm or sprawl out completely. Some distant part of his mind realized that the pain of that should have been distracting, perhaps even crippling. But instead, he felt nothing but the familiar surge of energy through his muscles, always brought on in the face of a fight. It drove away the lingering exhaustion, the pain, and the weakness from blood loss.

His father's voice echoed in his mind, ruthless and uncompromising even just in memory.

_"Pain is merely weakness. It can and should be overcome."_

_"If an injury isn't killing you, it shouldn't slow you."_

He kicked out at Luc's ankle, sending the man stumbling back a step with a curse. Aramis used the moment of reprieve to push himself up. He stepped forward to meet Luc's next attack, and as their blades met, the world shuddered around him.

Luc's visage flickered and melded into a large, imposing man in a mask.

Aramis' blood turned to ice in his veins.

This was the man he'd fought in Savoy – the leader. Of the few things he remembered from the battle,  _this_  was one of them. Anger swept through him. This man had ordered the death of twenty of his brothers.

He would pay for it with his life. Aramis would see it done.

He advanced with a cold, calculated fury, meeting the masked leader in a clashing of steel. Fighting with his left, though not  _quite_ as smooth as with his right, wasn't unfamiliar. It had been Thierry who, years ago now, had taught him to wield a sword in both hands. Thierry had been a master swordsman, the best Aramis had ever known.

" _This," Thierry rapped his blade against Aramis' pauldron, "will only do so much to protect you. A stray shot from a musket, a lucky angle with a blade, and your right arm is useless. What do you do?"_

" _Shoot them with my pistol," Aramis replied cheekily._

" _Fine, you kill one of them that way, two more are advancing. Even you can't reload fast enough with only one good arm. What do you do?"_

_Aramis shifted his sword to his left hand, grimacing at the awkward feel of it._

" _I try this and they'll cut me down."_

_Thierry huffed._

" _You fire that pistol of yours just as well with your left as your right, don't you?"_

" _I suppose," Aramis admitted. "But I've practiced that since I was ten years old."_

" _And you'll practice this," Thierry retorted. "You're eighteen, not eighty. You've still got it in you to learn some new tricks. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be able to wield two swords at once. Now, focus, Aramis. This may save your life one day."_

Aramis blinked away the memory as he knocked away his enemy's blade and stepped forward, slamming his closed right fist into the masked man's nose.

This was a lesson from his father. In a fight where losing means  _dying_ , do whatever it takes to win.

He advanced as his opponent stumbled back, shaking his head to clear it. A blow like that had likely left his eyes watering. Aramis knew that from experience.

"Aramis!"

He faltered. He knew that voice – the voice that had guided him back from the abyss. His only constant in the cold and darkness.

"He can't hear you!" Another voice, less familiar. "Look at him, he doesn't know where he is!"

"Aramis!"

_Porthos._

Aramis sucked in a breath as the world twisted, shifting out of focus. Snow and trees gave way to an old, ramshackle house and rolling hills. The mask flickered out of existence and he saw Luc, eyes streaming, lunging towards him.

A second blade sliced down in front of him, putting Luc's blade into the dirt. Then a mighty shove sent the man sprawling backwards. Aramis blinked, dumbfounded, even as two strong arms wrapped around him, dragging him back.

"Aramis! Snap out of it,  _now_!"

Aramis tried to speak, but his words caught in his dry throat.

It had happened again. He had lost himself.

"Get him up here!" Athos snapped urgently.

He felt the arms around him loosening and panic sliced through him. Porthos couldn't leave him. He'd promised.

Aramis forced his voice past his lips.

"P-Porthos?"

"I'm here," came the low, steady whisper in his ear. "You're gonna ride with Athos. The two of you are lighter together than you'd be with me and we have to move quickly."

Then Aramis was being all but tossed up behind Athos. He barely managed to get an arm around Athos' waist before he could go sliding off the other side.

"I'm right behind you!" Porthos assured as he vaulted back into his own saddle.

Athos wrapped a steadying arm backward around Aramis.

"Hold on," the older man ordered.

Then he put heel to horse and they rocketed away from the house and the men raising pistols after them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Fourteen
> 
> Freedom! Quite the team, these three, eh? :D Imagine how awesome they'll be when Aramis' PTSD calms down a little bit!
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "No!" Aramis snapped. "Don't. Don't tell me it isn't real. It is! It WAS! I was there, Porthos! In a forest painted red with the bodies of my brothers around me! I don't care if it's not real to you – it's real to me! I was alone! As my brothers died around me, as I watched Marsac walk away, as Michel and Remy died in my arms because I did not know how to save them! I WAS ALONE."


	15. When the Night Winds Are Driving On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Fourteen: Lady_Neve, rockinghorse, shanachie, Thimblerig, issa, HLN, and Scarlett77

 

* * *

_You cannot see brotherhood; neither can you hear it nor taste it. But you can feel it a hundred times a day. It is the pat on the back when things look gloomy. It is the smile of encouragement when the way seems hard. It is the helping hand when the burden becomes unbearable.  
_ _**Peter E. Terzick** _

* * *

_May 7, 1625  
_ _Road to Paris_

* * *

"Just up here," Athos announced.

He had turned Belle loose when he made his play to sneak into the old house. He hadn't wanted to risk her being tied and trapped if the worst happened and he hadn't had the horse for long anyway. But before they'd parted ways, he'd freed her of her saddle and the burden of his belongings.

He heard Porthos offer an acknowledging grunt and the larger man urged his horse to follow after Athos and Aramis. He hoped everything was still there and hadn't been absconded with by a passerby. It hadn't been only his things, after all, but those that he'd recovered from Aramis' and Porthos' campsite as well.

That thought brought his focus to the man behind him, who hadn't said a word since they'd fled the house. His right arm, wrapped tightly around Athos' waist, seemed steady and strong. His left hung limply down his side, the sword still clutched tightly in his hand. But Athos could feel the sticky, tackiness of blood seeping into the back of his shirt where Aramis' chest was pressed to his back.

He saw the thicket where he'd hidden everything and pulled the horse to a stop. Aramis shifted behind him immediately, sliding off the horse before Athos could offer to help him. He landed steadily enough, but his weight remained settled against the horse's flank. In order to dismount without risking kicking the other man in the head, Athos had to swing his leg up over the horse's head and slide off.

By then, Porthos was joining them.

Athos opened his mouth, prepared to enlist the larger Musketeer to aid him in retrieving everything from the thicket, but when Aramis' sudden and unreasonably intense gaze focused on him, his jaw snapped closed again.

He narrowed his eyes, wondering what he'd done to merit such scrutiny. But before he could ponder it for very long, Aramis was turning his glare onto Porthos.

"What?" the big man demanded, looking startled.

"You're bleeding," Aramis accused. His gaze flashed back to Athos. " _Both_  of you."

"That's funny," Porthos huffed, "comin' from you."

But Aramis was moving now, striding towards the thicket.

"You collected our things, yes?" he called over his shoulder.

Athos could only assume the younger man was talking to him.

"Yes," he replied warily.

He glanced at Porthos in confusion, hoping for insight. But Porthos just shrugged in helpless bewilderment.

Aramis reappeared, digging into his own saddle bags as he started back in their direction.

"Let me see that wound on your side, Athos. And you, Porthos, that bloody mess you've made of your arm."

They both just stared at him.

Aramis looked up from where he'd produced a small flask, a bundle of bandages, and a roll of leather.

"Well?" he prodded. "Which of you will be first?"

"Uh…I think  _you_  should be first," Porthos suggested as he warily looked Aramis over.

The other Musketeer stared blankly.

"I'm fine."

Athos managed a stunned blink. Aramis actually sounded as if he completely  _believed_  the ridiculous claim.

"You can't be serious," he challenged as he shared a doubtful glance with Porthos.

"Quite serious," Aramis countered. "I need to clean and close your wounds before infection can take hold."

"You've gone much longer without treatment," Porthos pointed out.

"I'm not worried about me!" Aramis snapped sharply, dark eyes flashing. "What  _I'm_  worried about is the two of you. You've got wounds. I've the means to treat them. Now which of you is first?" he demanded, tone hard and unyielding.

Athos felt the corner of his mouth twitch down in a slight frown. Something was not quite right here. Now that he was looking more closely, he could see a fresh tension in Aramis' shoulders. The look in his eye was a strange mixture of irrational wildness and absolute focus. He looked…primed. As if the slightest misstep would set him off.

"Me," Athos volunteered quietly, earning a look from Porthos that was equal parts shocked and dumbfounded.

But as soon as the word left his mouth, Athos saw something in Aramis' posture ease.

Soon, Athos found himself reclining against a tree while Aramis cleaned the blood off his side with steady, gentle hands. Athos watched him work with a strange sort of dispassion.

"Hmmm," Aramis hummed as he leaned in to inspect the wound.

It was a slash to his ribs, quite painful in all honesty. Athos was already clenching his jaw against the added agony of Aramis' prodding fingers.

"Needs stitching," the young Musketeer announced as he sat back. He reached for the rolled piece of leather and untied it, flattening it out on the ground.

Athos found his eyebrow arching in surprise when he saw a basic surgeon's kit stored carefully inside.

"The physician at the Garrison has been tutoring me," Aramis explained without prompting. "Luckily for you, I've been told I've quite the talent for needlework."

"How long have you been studying with him?" Athos asked warily as Aramis deftly threaded a needle and laid it across the other tools.

"Oh, perhaps two weeks now," he answered with a wide grin as he brought the flask towards Athos' side. "This will sting a bit," he warned before upending the flask onto the wound.

Athos' vision went briefly white and he thought he might have made some hideous sound. But then the pain faded and he was able to properly glare at Aramis in surprised betrayal.

" _Sting?"_  he nearly growled.

Aramis grimaced.

"Henri says anticipation can be a terrible thing."

Athos muttered something less than gentlemanly under his breath and glanced to where Porthos was loading the retrieved things onto the horses. His attention slid back to Aramis when the Musketeer reached for the needle.

Realizing suddenly that a distraction might be quite desirable for the next several minutes, Athos cast about for something to occupy his mind.

Two weeks, Aramis had said. Two weeks that he had been under the tutelage of a physician. This seemed a rather short amount of time to be trusted with something as delicate as a person's health.

Although, Athos ruefully admitted, his own wellbeing was not currently one of his uppermost priorities. So really, Aramis could do as he wished.

That thought had him focusing on the man before him. He watched silently as Aramis skillfully and steadily started closing the wound on his side. He worked as if he'd been doing this for years. Watching him now, Athos never would have guessed he'd only been at it for two weeks.

That had Athos idly wondering what had prompted Aramis to learn the new skill. It was a vast undertaking, really, to teach your hands to heal while continuing to train them to do harm as well.

But even as he considered what catalyst would have spurred such a thing, the answer whispered through his mind.

 _Savoy_.

He had only known Aramis for a day but already Athos had seen that so much about the young Musketeer came back to that. Part of him wished for the whole story, to know the entire truth of what Aramis had suffered if only so that he could better understand those moments of darkness that he lost himself in. However, another part of him wasn't sure he could bear the weight of anyone else's suffering when he could hardly bear the weight of his own.

But, there was  _one_  thing he couldn't help but address.

"You go there, don't you?" he asked quietly. "When you've a sword in your hand and a battle before you, you're back there."

He watched Aramis go rigid, hands stilling mid stitch. That alone told Athos the truth of it.

But then, the Musketeer drew in a breath and seemed to dissipate the tension in his shoulders by pure force of will. When he looked up, he was smiling.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Aramis replied brightly before returning to his work.

Athos quirked a brow.

He, better than most, understood the need to conceal pain. He had hidden his own in brooding silence and wine for months now. He'd traveled from city to city, tavern to tavern, trying to outrun his ghosts.

Aramis, it seemed, went to the opposite extreme.

He was hiding behind that false smile that was betrayed by the trauma reflected in his dark eyes. He hid behind cheerful words and blatant lies. Athos was sure the only reason he wasn't fooled by it was simply because he had seen Aramis' true self already.

He had seen the broken soul, the haunted mind who screamed himself awake. He'd watched him struggle with trusting a man who practically bled devotion. Athos had seen behind the mask Aramis was now donning. Having that insight, it only made the mask seem all the more forced.

"You turned your blade on me," Athos pointed out carefully, "your ally."

Aramis shifted where he was kneeling and fleetingly met his gaze.

"Battles are confusing, tracking friend from foe is-"

"You're a Musketeer, a group lauded for their experience," Athos interrupted. "I hardly think a skirmish as small as that would 'confuse' you."

He watched Aramis steadfastly ignore him and tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the perceived challenge.

"I saw the look in your eyes," he revealed quietly, "when you realized what you'd done. You weren't  _here_. You were somewhere else, fighting someone else."

Aramis stubbornly clenched his jaw closed and continued working. Athos barely resisted the urge to throw up his arms in frustration. Instead, he tightened his own jaw and tried a different tactic.

"What if the next time it happens, the ally you turn on isn't as capable of defending themselves as I was?" Athos pressed.

Aramis' gaze snapped up to his, dark eyes flirting with alarm.

"You're skilled," Athos pointed out, "and impressively trained. Even using your left hand you were formidable. What will you do if it happens again? If you hurt someone who doesn't deserve it?"

Aramis tied off the stitches and sat back, wiping his hands on a cloth. He glanced over his shoulder to where Porthos was finishing up with the horses and then turned back to meet Athos' gaze. Gone were the fake attempts at smiles and good humor. Instead, he looked serious and strained.

"I've avoided swordplay for weeks," he admitted.

"You can't go on like that forever," Athos pointed out with an arched brow.

Aramis sighed and looked away.

"What good is a Musketeer who can't draw his sword, you mean," he replied darkly.

Athos winced. That  _hadn't_ , in fact, been what he meant. But it was obviously a thought tumbling around in Aramis' mind. Once again, Athos was struck with some unfounded urge to do something about it.

He didn't know where that desire came from or what, exactly, to do with it now that it was here. It had always been easy with Thomas. Athos had been supporting, aiding, and comforting his little brother since the day he had been born. It had been natural and instinctive.

But with Aramis…

He didn't know what to do, or even if his help would be welcome. He had seen firsthand Porthos' frustration. He watched the culmination of whatever struggle the two had been locked in. If Aramis had been so resistant to Porthos, a comrade and friend, why would he ever welcome interference from a stranger?

"That should do it," Aramis stated suddenly, drawing Athos out of his thoughts.

Athos blinked down at his torso in surprise, wondering how he had missed Aramis wrapping a bandage around his ribs to cover and protect the fresh stitches. He realized then that he had not responded to Aramis' self-deprecating statement.

"Aramis," he started, only to fall silent.

Had it really been so long since he'd offered comfort to someone that the words failed him now? Even in more recent years, Thomas hadn't really come to him for such things. Athos had been too wrapped up in  _her_  to be much use to anyone anyway.

Aramis gave him a look then, this small sad, unsurprised smile, as if Athos had just lived up to some exceedingly low expectation.

"I'll go see to Porthos now," Aramis decided, collecting his things and rising fluidly. He walked away without giving Athos a chance to respond.

Athos was left sitting against the tree, still holding his shirt up by the hem, watching him go.

* * *

Porthos settled on a fallen log and let Aramis help him slide his arm free of the bloody, sticky sleeve of his shirt.

"How was Athos?" he asked as Aramis used a damp cloth to clean away the blood on his arm.

"Cleaned and stitched," Aramis replied. He leaned closer then, narrowing his gaze at the slash Porthos had taken to his bicep. "As you will soon be."

Porthos chewed the inside of his lip, eyes drifting to the bloody mess of a scarf tied around Aramis' shoulder.

"And then you," he decided firmly.

Aramis lifted his gaze to meet Porthos' and gave him a weary grin.

"The bleeding, I believe, has stopped for now," Aramis reached for a small flask but didn't do anything with it yet, "I'm in no immediate danger."

Porthos sighed.

"What good is tutorin' under Henri if you're still a fool about your own health?"

"Ah, fool or not, I'm still quite capable of tending to  _you_ , my friend."

With that, he upended the flask over Porthos' arm without so much as an 'on the count of three.' Porthos rose half off the log and cursed through gritted teeth.

Aramis pulled him back down with a sympathetic grimace.

"Bit of warning, in the future, if you don't mind," Porthos ground out.

"Tell me, Porthos, would a warning really have helped?" Aramis asked as he set aside the flask and reached for the needle.

"It might have," Porthos replied in a grumble, watching Aramis thread the needle in one, practiced move.

"The pain, then, would have been less you think?" Aramis wondered as he leaned closer and started in on the wound.

" _It might have_ ," Porthos repeated through clenched teeth. He rolled his eyes when Aramis looked up at him through his lashes with a teasing smirk on his lips.

That was when it hit him.

Aramis was different.

He was teasing him and grinning, but it wasn't forced. The tension that had seemed ever-present in his shoulders, even when he'd been tending to Athos, was somewhat eased.

He seemed more… _himself_  than he had in weeks. There was still a weariness there and a lingering weight – sadness perhaps, or something more – but that spark that was undeniably  _Aramis_  was back. It was small, like a fledgling flame, but compared to its glaring absence ever since Savoy, it may as well have been a forest fire.

Porthos knew, though, that everything wasn't miraculously fixed. Aramis wasn't magically healed in mind and soul. There were still things that had worry tightening in Porthos' gut.

The dreams, for one, were unrelenting and heartbreaking to witness.

Porthos was under no illusions. He knew that even if their brotherhood was finally,  _finally_  on the mend, Aramis was still haunted by Savoy.

But more than those were the claims of penance.

Aramis had taken a giant leap. He had made the choice to trust Porthos again, to trust the brotherhood they had shared before Savoy. But that wasn't the same as realizing Savoy was not a burden he had to bear alone.

It was a start, though.

And Porthos would take it.

* * *

Aramis only offered token protest when Porthos all but shoved him down onto the log moments after he'd tied off the last stitch on the big man's arm.

"We need to keep moving," he reminded.

"We will," Porthos agreed, "after we look at your shoulder."

Aramis didn't bother fighting when the larger man carefully started unwinding Athos' scarf from its dutiful place as a bandage. He didn't even argue when Athos appeared out of nowhere and pressed a water skin into his hand.

"Drink," he ordered in a tone that warned against disobedience.

So Aramis drank.

When Porthos hissed, Aramis arched a brow and glanced down at his shoulder.

"Hmmm," he hummed dispassionately as he took in the crusted, bloody mess. "Told you the bleeding had stopped."

He looked up to find Porthos and Athos wearing twin looks of horrified disbelief – or at least he  _thought_  that might be the look on Athos' face. It was impossible to be certain, really, as the man's expression didn't change. His eyes, though, suggested he was as startled as Porthos.

What had set them both off, however, remained a mystery.

"What?" he asked with a frown.

"After the fuss you made over the pair of us," Porthos accused with a huff, "that mess," he pointed at Aramis' shoulder, "barely merits your concern?"

"Well…" Aramis started, ready to explain that it actually looked better than he'd expected.

"Tell us what to do," Athos ordered, sounding far too authoritative for a man who had only known him for the span of a day.

"Well…" Aramis tried again, only to roll his eyes and toss up a hand when Porthos cut him off this time.

"We should clean it, like he did ours."

Athos nodded his agreement.

"Should we stitch it?" Porthos wondered.

Aramis opened his mouth to tell them 'no' because they had absolutely no training that he knew of and he would not be letting them near him with a sharp needle, but Athos arched an eyebrow and spoke before he could.

"Do  _you_  know how to wield that?" he asked, nodding at the needle abandoned on Aramis' surgeon's kit.

Porthos hesitated and Aramis jumped in before the opportunity was lost.

"No!" he objected, a bit too loudly. "Neither of you are coming anywhere near me with a needle."

His outburst earned both of their attention and Aramis took a breath.

"It just needs to be cleaned and rebound," he instructed, reaching for the scarf and finding a clean-ish edge that he then doused with water from the skin Athos had given him. He then started carefully cleaning the dried blood away from the wound.

The others had fallen silent, so Aramis was surprised when a dark hand settled over his and gently pulled the scarf from his fingers. He glanced at Porthos with a raised brow.

"You don't have to do everything alone," the other Musketeer reminded quietly. "Let me help you."

Aramis grudgingly allowed Porthos to take over, turning his focus instead to the water skin he'd set on the ground. He took another long drink, relishing the tepid liquid on his parched throat.

"It's bleeding again," Athos observed mildly as he stood over Porthos' shoulder.

That had Aramis returning his attention to Porthos' ministrations. The wound was indeed bleeding anew.

"It's fine," he assured, even as his mind whispered a ruthless reminder that it probably  _wasn't_.

"This next?" Porthos asked, holding up the flask.

Aramis nodded. When Porthos hesitated, he snatched the flask from him and upended it over his wounded shoulder himself.

He gritted his teeth and released a slow breath through his nose. Pain, like many things in life, could be controlled – one only needed to know  _how_. Of all his father's lessons that he had rejected, that had been one he embraced. Such a skill had served him well over the years when being crippled by pain would have likely gotten him killed. He had his limits, as all men did, but his remarkably high capacity for tolerating pain had always been somewhat of a marvel amongst those closest to him.

Save Treville - the captain had only ever looked saddened by it.

Unwilling to focus on the hollow feeling of loss that thought brought, Aramis raised his gaze back to the two men watching him.

Athos' expression was unchanged – as Aramis was coming to expect – but his eyes were narrowed in something that vaguely resembled concerned fascination.

Porthos' face, on the other hand, read like an open book. There was worry there, and concern, but what Aramis saw most clearly was that same horrified sadness that he had always seen in Treville.

Before either of them could say anything, Aramis cleared his throat and reached for the roll of bandages.

"We should get moving," he reminded. "If they had any horses other than the ones we freed they won't be far behind."

Porthos reached forward again and batted his hands away.

Aramis rolled his eyes but allowed the other man to bind the wound. Then Porthos was pulling him up and Athos was leading the horses over to them.

"From what I saw of your skill with a pistol back there," Athos started as he reached into a saddlebag Aramis didn't recognize, "these must belong to you."

Aramis felt his eyes go wide when Athos produced his twin pistols and held them out. He'd thought they were lost for good, or worse – that Luc or one of his minions had stolen them.

"I'd hand them over," Porthos whispered loudly to Athos. "He's liable to take your hand off," he finished with a chuckle.

Aramis didn't even bother to glare, instead he just stepped forward and accepted the weapons – he most certainly did not  _snatch_  them – from Athos. The familiar weight of them in his hands eased a bit of the tension that had been tight in his shoulders since…well since they'd first been attacked and he'd lost them both.

Already, he felt the itch in his fingers to carefully clean and ready them for combat.

"I know that look," Porthos teased. "Knowing you, you can do that while riding. Come on," Porthos urged him towards a horse, "ride with me and give that other horse a break."

The next thing Aramis knew he was balanced behind Porthos on the horse, one pistol cradled in his hands as he wiped it down with an oiled cloth retrieved from his own saddlebags.

* * *

"You've cleaned those three times," Porthos pointed out quietly as he watched Aramis labor over his pistols where he leaned against a tree.

"Respect your weapon and it will respect you," Aramis replied wearily. But he put the pistols aside anyway, near the sword and dagger Athos had also returned to him. He crossed his arms over his chest, choosing, now, to scan the area around them in the same hyper-aware paranoid fashion he'd been using since they'd finally decided to stop and rest for the night.

As Porthos watched, a shiver shook the marksman's body and he hunkered down more compactly against the tree.

"Do you think they're following?" Athos asked from the next tree over.

"We've not seen or heard any sign of them," Porthos answered. "If they're following, they're either really good at it or really bad."

"We didn't know they were there the first time," Aramis reminded darkly, one hand drifting to rest atop his pistols.

Porthos watched him shiver again.

They hadn't risked building a fire. If Luc and his men  _were_  out there, a fire was as good as an invitation to take them captive again.

"They won't take you by surprise again," Athos assured, settling more comfortably against his tree, one hand near, but not  _on_ , his stolen sword. "And there are three of us this time."

Aramis didn't argue, but he didn't relax his vigil on the surrounding area either.

All of a sudden he sat up straighter, looking at Athos.

"Our horses? Did Luc take them?"

Porthos looked at Athos too, listening for the answer.

"One of them broke its reins and fled. The other did the same as soon as I cut him free – a large black one."

"Fort," Porthos nodded, recognizing the description.

"Esmé would go home to Paris, back to the Garrison if she could. Fort would likely follow," Aramis turned and met Porthos' gaze.

"So if no one stopped them, Treville might be setting out to meet us," Porthos realized with relief.

"Good luck to anyone trying to stop Esmé when she's set her mind to something," Aramis replied, grinning even as he shivered again.

"Yeah, stubborn, that one," Porthos grinned back, remembering teasing Aramis about just that weeks ago, back before Savoy had changed everything.

The way Aramis' grin softened suggested he remembered too.

"Get some sleep," Porthos suggested quietly.

Aramis looked reluctant, shivering  _again_. Porthos sighed when this time it didn't taper off and instead just seem to settle, leaving Aramis shaking like a leaf in the wind. The air was already a bit chilled and without a fire, it would only grow colder.

Without a word, Porthos rose from his own tree and walked to Aramis. He wrapped his hand around the marksman's bare ankle and pulled him down so he was laying in front of the tree instead of leaning against it.

He ignored Aramis' squawk of protest and Athos' wry chuckle and instead stretched out on the ground next to Aramis. He shoved Aramis over to his side and then shifted, pressing his back to the marksman's – hip to shoulder.

"Porthos! What are yo-"

"Save it," Porthos grumbled, hooking an arm under his head and closing his eyes. "We've been in more compromising positions than this, you and I. Take the warmth for what it is and  _sleep_."

"But I-"

"I'll keep first watch," Athos promised from his tree.

"Wake me for the second," Porthos said, peeking one eye open. "And perhaps if I'm feeling generous, I'll wake you for the third. But only if you  _sleep_ ," he directed at the man at his back.

"Fine," Aramis sighed. "But I'm not a child you know."

"Of course you aren't," Porthos agreed lazily as he settled more comfortably on the forest floor. He felt Aramis shift next to him, wriggling to get more comfortable.

"I don't need to be coddled," Aramis insisted further.

"Obviously not," Athos assured.

Porthos smirked and opened his mouth to tell Aramis to just 'find a comfortable position already' when he felt Aramis go rigid behind him.

"Aramis?" Porthos called gently, concern tightening in his gut.

They'd taken shelter in the trees. It had been a necessity; Aramis had even insisted. They needed to be under complete cover in case Luc and his men were looking for them. Aramis hadn't said a word, not with Athos there, but Porthos had seen the tension mount in his brother's shoulders as time wore on.

When Aramis didn't answer him, Porthos shifted, pressing his back more solidly against Aramis'.

"This is not Savoy," he whispered over his shoulder. "I wasn't with you there, remember?"

Aramis still didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe.

"I'm here," Porthos assured quietly.

Still noticeably shivering, Aramis finally relaxed, his back settling solidly against Porthos'. It took a while, but eventually Aramis' breathing deepened and evened out. When Porthos was sure he was finally asleep, he opened his eyes and looked up towards Athos.

Somehow he wasn't surprised to find the man looking back at him.

Athos gave him a solemn, serious nod and Porthos returned it.

Assured then that Athos would watch over them, Porthos let himself sleep, too.

* * *

Aramis woke to a solid warmth against his back and something soft pressing against his forehead.

He blinked, staring bemusedly at the dark fabric in front of his face.

"You awake?" Porthos' deep, rumbling voice reached him from somewhere above and Aramis shifted, pulling away from whatever he'd been nuzzling into.

He arched a brow and flushed scarlet when he realized it was Porthos' leg. The other Musketeer was sitting next to him, wide awake, looking down at him in concern. That must mean that Athos… Yes. A glance confirmed it: the older man was at his back, still asleep.

"Was it a dream?" Porthos asked worriedly when Aramis took too long to answer.

A dream? Aramis frowned in confusion when he realized that no, it  _hadn't_  been a dream that had awakened him. In fact, now that he really thought about it, he couldn't remember dreaming at all. Considering he hadn't been able to sleep without such a thing since that cursed night in Savoy, the realization left him stunned.

"Aramis?" Porthos sat forward now, hand settling on Aramis' shoulder.

"I'm fine," he finally answered, slowly shifting up to sitting. Athos stirred behind him but didn't wake. "How long was I asleep?"

"Not sure exactly, but it's nearly dawn," Porthos answered softly.

"Dawn?" Aramis repeated in surprise. That meant he'd been asleep for hours. He hadn't managed even one or two uninterrupted hours since Savoy.

"Was it a dream?" Porthos asked again.

"No," Aramis assured, feeling a pressure in his bladder that reminded him why he  _had_  woken, "not a dream."

And he still couldn't quite believe it.

He stood, carefully moving away from Athos so as not to wake the sleeping man.

"Where are you going?" Porthos asked.

"All of that water you two made me drink is demanding my attention," Aramis replied in a whisper, sliding a wary look at Athos.

"Don't go far," Porthos instructed, "and take this." He held out one of Aramis' pistols.

Aramis reached back for it, smiling his thanks before he remembered Porthos likely couldn't see him very well.

"Thank you," he offered instead. "I'll be right back," he promised.

Then he carefully picked his way across the forest floor, wary of stepping on anything unpleasant with his bare feet.

Luc taking their boots, while brilliant on  _his_  part, was proving rather inconvenient.

Aramis was no stranger to wandering without boots. He'd spent most of his childhood running wild through coastal southern France without the hassle of shoes. His father had been the one to instill in him that  _boots_  were "required for civilized living." It had been a very long time since he'd wandered through a forest without anything to protect his feet.

He shivered, feeling the bite of the cold seeping in and replacing the warmth that had been lingering since he woke. He quickly found a suitable tree and relieved himself, pistol tucked securely under his arm.

After finishing, he turned, intent on getting back to the others and letting Porthos get back to sleep.

He had only taken a few steps when it happened. Later he would blame the trees and the cold, because hindsight always tended to be so much clearer.

A rustling nearby in a bush drew his attention and, without warning, the world shifted around him.

With his next step, snow crunched under his feet. A shadowed figure took form behind the bush, charging towards him. Aramis took one look at the mask and raised his pistol, firing without hesitation. He retreated a step, keenly aware that he didn't have his sword. His heel caught on something soft and solid, nearly tripping him. A glance down revealed a bloody frozen corpse. Beyond it was another, and another, and another.

He was there. He was in Savoy.

A crashing in the trees alerted him to more enemies on the way. He reached for his belt and the ball pouch he kept secured there, but both were missing. He couldn't reload his gun, but that didn't make it useless. He spun it in his hand, gripping the still warm barrel tightly, ready to wield it like a club.

When the enemy finally appeared through the darkness, he was wielding a sword. And he wasn't alone.

He would have to disarm one of them. It was the only way he would have a chance. Aramis struck hard and fast, drawing upon every dirty trick he knew, and a few moments later he had a sword in his hand and an enemy at his feet.

"Aramis!" the defeated man called out sharply, something in his voice resonating so clearly in Aramis' memory that he froze in place, sword still raised to strike.

It was then that he noticed the second man hadn't engaged, watching warily instead.

"This is not Savoy," the man on the ground insisted firmly, a hand raised towards Aramis in…surrender? Entreaty? Aramis frowned, confusion filtering in. "It's me, Aramis. I'm here."

_I'm here._

Those words… That voice…

_Porthos._

And the world shifted back.

Aramis backpedaled, nearly tripping over his own feet in an effort to gain distance between himself and Porthos, who was still on the ground, watching him in unveiled concern.

Porthos was bleeding from a cut above his brow and another on his cheek. Aramis had done that.

"You can put down the sword, Aramis," Athos suggested quietly.

Aramis tensed, hand going white around the hilt of the sword he'd apparently taken from Porthos. He realized, then, that he still had it raised defensively. With effort, he lowered the point to the ground.

"Aramis?" Porthos called as he pushed to his feet, but didn't yet try to approach.

"I'm fine," Aramis assured breathlessly. "I'm fine," he said again, even less convincingly.

"You're not." It was Athos who called him a liar.

Both Aramis and Porthos looked sharply at him, surprised.

"You are not 'fine', Aramis," Athos insisted. "You turned your blade on me yesterday and now you've attacked Porthos." Then he added more gently, "You are not 'fine.'"

"I have it in hand," Aramis argued, his voice gaining strength. "A momentary lapse. I can handle it."

He had to. He had to carry this burden, pay his penance. He  _had_ to.

"Stop," Porthos cut in sharply. "Stop with this belief that you have to carry this alone. You're not alone, Aramis."

"I know," Aramis assured, meeting Porthos' gaze sincerely. "I know you're here, Porthos."

And he did. He knew now, with absolute certainty, that Porthos would not abandon him. He knew Porthos could be trusted. He knew the brotherhood Porthos offered would not be withdrawn, not like Marsac's had been.

"But it doesn't change this," he went on.

"Why?" Porthos asked simply. "Why shouldn't it change everything?"

Aramis shook his head, grasping at his conviction.

This was his penance – this is what he had to do. He had failed his men in Savoy and he could never forgive himself until he paid the price for it. He  _had_ to.

"Isn't that what brotherhood is, Aramis?" Porthos pressed. "Isn't it being there, together, through everything? Even when things are at their worst?"

Aramis let his spent pistol fall from his fingers, choosing instead to dig his hand up into his hair. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to stay strong. He tried to hold on to the vow he'd made two weeks ago. He had demanded this of himself. To achieve absolution in his own eyes he must bear this burden alone.

He tried.

But he was tired.

And Porthos was here. He was always here.

He felt something shatter within him, some invisible dam gave way, letting loose everything he'd been holding so closely guarded.

"You aren't there, Porthos," he started quietly. "Even when you're  _here_ , you aren't  _there_."

It escaped no one's attention that he spoke of it not as a thing of the past, but as if it were happening right at this moment.

"Neither are you," Porthos reminded, his voice shaking. "You're not in Savoy, Aramis."

Aramis didn't know whether he should laugh or cry or some devastating combination of both.

"But I  _am_ ," he revealed, voice breaking under the weight of the confession. "Don't you see, Porthos? I'm  _always_  there." He raised the sword he'd taken from Porthos and shook it a bit in demonstration, letting out a bark of laughter bordering on hysteria.

"Aramis…" Porthos tried, tone low and soothing.

He was going to tell Aramis it wasn't real, that it was a figment and nothing more.

But it wasn't.

Not to him.

And just like that, something hot and angry sprang to life inside him.

"No!" Aramis snapped. " _Don't_. Don't tell me it isn't real. It  _is_! It  _WAS!_ I was there, Porthos! In a forest painted red with the bodies of my brothers around me! I don't care if it's not real to you – it's real  _to me!_  I was  _alone_! As my brothers died around me, as I watched Marsac walk away, as Michel and Remy died in my arms because I did not know how to save them!  _I WAS ALONE."_

His hand hurt where he had it wrapped so tightly around the sword hilt. He thrust the fingers of his other hand up into his hair again, curling them to dig into his scalp as he squeezed his eyes closed.

He was going mad. Or perhaps he was already there.

What other reason was there for the way his mind could not decide which reality he belonged in.

"Aramis," Porthos' voice sounded from just ahead of him, too close.

Aramis' eyes snapped open and he stumbled back, away from Porthos. Athos, who was a step behind the other Musketeer put a hand on the big man's shoulder to keep him from pursuing.

"I was  _alone_ ," Aramis repeated desperately, letting the sword fall forgotten to the ground so he could press the hand against his chest. It felt as if a band was tightening around his lungs, preventing them from working as they should.

"You're not alone anymore," Athos assured when Porthos appeared too stricken to respond.

"But I  _am!_ " Aramis insisted. "Don't you see? You may be here, but you aren't  _here_ ," he stabbed a finger against his own temple. "And  _here_ , Savoy will never rest," his voice broke again as he tried to make them understand. "I close my eyes, and I'm  _there_. I pick up my sword and I'm  _there_. In every moment of silence, in every dream, with every breath,  _I'm there_."

It felt sometimes, in the darkest moments, as if he'd never left, as if they'd never found him.

Perhaps they hadn't. Perhaps he had died there, too, and this was his own personal hell.

A strong, warm hand suddenly slid across his hair and down his head to squeeze the back of his neck.

"And I'm  _here_ ," Porthos assured him firmly. "You are not there anymore. I pulled you from the snow myself. I carried you in my arms away from that place."

Aramis opened his mouth to object, to argue that he wasn't  _listening_ , but Porthos went on before he could interrupt.

"I know how real it is to you," Porthos insisted. "Where have I been, but by your side? How could I not know? How could I not  _see_? But am I not just as real?" he challenged.

Aramis stared at him, memory suddenly echoing with a familiar voice – Porthos' voice. He had heard him so many times as he clawed his way back after Savoy. Porthos had been his only constant. And even now, Porthos was sometimes the only voice he heard – the only thing that could draw him back.

"I think maybe I should have died there," he confessed. "Perhaps my soul is only trying to fix the mistake of my survival." Then, at least, he would have suffered the fate his failure deserved.

Hands were suddenly tight around his arms, shaking him once, firmly.

"Don't say that!" Porthos growled. "Don't you  _ever_ say that!"

"I  _would_  have died with them," he insisted quietly. "I would have died  _for_ them."

"You weren't meant to," Porthos replied fiercely. "You were meant to  _live_."

"I know," Aramis answered softly, meeting Porthos' desperate gaze with his own. "So that I can bear the weight of my failure."

Porthos' eyes widened.

"What?!" he breathed frantically. " _No."_

"I failed them, Porthos," Aramis confessed. He backed away, withdrawing himself from Porthos' grip, gone lax now with the same shock Aramis could see on his face. "It was  _my_  mission. I chose the location. I chose to post a light watch. I led them all into death."

He had failed all of them, even Marsac – perhaps Marsac worst of all.

Porthos looked broken, as if the only thing keeping him on his feet was pure force of will. But it was Athos, lingering still some ways from them both, who spoke.

"You didn't fail them," he disagreed simply, firmly. "You would have died for them. You confessed this yourself. You didn't know what would happen. You didn't lead the enemy to them. What fault in this lies with you?"

Aramis just shook his head. They didn't understand. How could they?

"Penance," Porthos stated abruptly, his voice shaking with barely contained emotion. "You called it your penance."

Aramis looked back at him and saw heartbreak in Porthos' eyes.

"Is this why you have suffered in silence? Why you have hidden behind the smiles and the cheerful words? You think you  _deserve_  this? You think you have to atone for Savoy?"

Aramis felt moisture well in his own eyes.

"I failed them," he repeated firmly, deliberately. Because in the end, that is what it came down to. "God may one day forgive me, but I  _never_  will."

They both stared at him in stunned silence. Perhaps they were horrified by his words, or perhaps they finally saw the truth of them. It took great force of will, but he made himself look at each of them.

Porthos, his ever-expressive face, was trying valiantly to keep himself together, but the silent tears tracking down his cheeks told the truth of it. His eyes told of devastation and heartbreak, but there was no trace of anger, no recrimination.

And Athos, the stranger-turned-rescuer-turned-comrade, was staring at Aramis as if they shared a soul. His expression, always so impassive until now, was twisted in shared grief. He looked, inexplicably, as if he  _understood_.

"You didn't fail anyone," Athos insisted firmly, almost angrily. There was passion and fire in his tone that Aramis had not yet heard from him. "You have nothing to atone for. What happened to you and your men was a tragedy, but not one of  _your_  making. You  _did not fail them_." He said it so fiercely, demanding with both his tone and the fire in his gaze that Aramis  _hear_  him and  _believe_. "Surviving is not your penance, Aramis," he went on, "it is your obligation."

Aramis drew back as if Athos had reached out and struck him.

_Obligation._

That single word rang so painfully true in his soul that all he could do was stare, open mouthed.

As if sunlight had just broken through the storm raging in his heart, hope ignited in him. Had he been wrong all this time? Had he let his own sorrow and heartbreak cloud the true reason God had spared him in Savoy?

"It is your obligation to remember them. To ensure they are never forgotten," Athos insisted.

Could this be why he alone remained? The sole returning survivor, meant to tell the story, meant to remember the dead?

Could this be his true purpose?

He had believed, with all his heart, that he had survived to suffer for his failure. He had been selfish, focused only on his own guilt and heartbreak.

But perhaps his life held a greater role – a role to ensure his fallen brothers were not left again to be forgotten in Savoy.

It was a monumental task and held an even greater weight than ideas of guilt and penance. If he failed in this, if he let their memories fade,  _then_  he would truly fail his brothers. He would have betrayed them the same way Marsac had betrayed him.

"A curse," Aramis whispered, because that's what it felt like, what it had  _been_  to him over these long weeks.

"A burden," Athos corrected, the fire fading from his face and his voice. " _But_ ," the man glanced at Porthos and then back to Aramis, "not one you are destined to carry alone."

"All for one," Porthos recited suddenly, "one for all." He drifted closer again, latching onto Aramis' shoulders once more. " _You_  know what that truly means, Aramis, better than anyone. You've been carrying the weight of twenty dead because you believe it so completely."

Aramis felt the gathered moisture in his eyes spill over, tracking down his face.

"I'm all that's left," he whispered raggedly.

"No," Porthos murmured fiercely. "You're  _not_.  _I'm_ here. If you would carry this burden for  _them,_  how can you ever believe I would not stand by your side and carry it  _with you_? If I have proven nothing to you but that, let it be enough."

And with that, whatever of himself that had been left, whatever bit of strength that had been holding him together, broke to pieces.

His knees buckled beneath him and only Porthos' steady hold kept him from collapsing to the ground. Slowly and gently, the grip on his shoulders never loosening, Porthos went down with him. Once his knees hit the dirt, Aramis folded forward, digging his hands into his hair as he dropped his forehead to the ground.

" _I'm here_ , Aramis, and I always will be," Porthos whispered fiercely.

A promise. A vow.

The warm sincerity of those words was his complete undoing.

The emotion that had been building in his chest, choking him, burst free with a visceral cry of pain. With his shoulders heaving with sobs he could no longer contain, he thought he might have shattered to pieces right there on the forest floor. But Porthos was there, pulling him up to his chest, wrapping strong arms around his back.

Aramis twisted his hands in the back of Porthos' shirt, grounding himself in his solid presence. He feared if he didn't anchor himself to something now, he would break apart completely and never again be made whole.

* * *

Athos watched Aramis cling to Porthos as if that grip alone was the key to his survival. He felt his own throat tighten and his eyes grow wet as he listened to the pain, denied for too long, finally tear free. For that's what it sounded like. It sounded as if Aramis were being ripped apart by this grief.

Porthos, for his part, was holding Aramis just as tightly. Athos couldn't see their faces, but he had heard the emotion in the young man's voice, unveiled and unrestrained. He could tell, by the shaking of Porthos' shoulders, that he was likely crying too, sharing Aramis' pain as if it were his own.

For a moment, Athos did not know his place in this.

The desperate embrace before him was one of brotherhood. Bone deep, undeniable  _brotherhood_.

He had meant that much to someone in the past. He had embraced another with the same abandon once upon a time.

But no more.

Thomas was gone.

He had told Aramis he had not failed his comrades and he had said it with conviction. He  _knew_  what that kind of failure looked like. He knew it well enough to see it in another, real or imagined.

He knew because he had failed Thomas in that way.

 _She_  had killed him, but Athos had been the one blinded by her. He had been the one to allow her into their lives and who had been fooled by her lies.

Aramis had blamed himself for the death of his men, his brothers, when the fault had not been his.

Athos could claim no such absolution.

As he watched Porthos and Aramis cling to each other, he found himself yearning to be part of it – to feel that kind of brotherhood again.

He even drifted closer, close enough to hear Porthos' murmuring words.

"I'm here," he was whispering. "I'm here, 'Mis.."

The quiet promise stilled Athos where he stood.

He was a stranger here, an outsider. He barely knew these men. He had no right to be here, witnessing this moment. He resolved to back away, return to their meager camp and give them privacy.

But just as he was preparing to move, a hand grabbed at his wrist.

His gaze snapped around to meet Porthos' watery eyes. The large man still had one arm wrapped securely around Aramis, but the other had reached out to hold Athos in place.

" _Thank you,_ " Porthos mouthed silently, gaze sincere.

Athos nodded once, solemnly. He understood all too well the weight Aramis had been suffering under. He found himself relieved, and even proud, that he had played a part in helping him to bear it.

He expected Porthos to release him then, to focus back on Aramis and let Athos fade away.

But instead, the grip on his wrist remained steady even as Porthos tightened his other arm around Aramis' heaving shoulders and turned his face down into the smaller Musketeer's shoulder.

Athos hesitated, but then twisted his arm in Porthos' grip until he could wrap his own fingers around the other man's wrist in turn. When the touch was not rejected, Athos took a halting step towards them and reached out with his free hand.

He nearly withdrew several times before finally resting his hand on the back of Aramis' neck, as he'd seen Porthos do many times before.

That touch was not rejected either.

And there they remained, even as the darkness gave way to dawn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 15
> 
> And finally the levy breaks. That was a long time comin, I think we can all agree. Show of hands if you cried.
> 
> *Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn*
> 
> "Athos risked his life to rescue us," Aramis interjected, taking a small step forward. "He witnessed our capture and pursued to where we were being held. He then infiltrated Luc's base and did his best to get us out."
> 
> "But he failed," Treville realized with an arched brow.
> 
> "That was my fault," Aramis defended firmly, "not his. He acted with bravery and honor, with the very qualities that stand at the heart of the Musketeers. Despite his lack of military experience," Aramis shifted a questioning glance at Athos and waited for the confirming nod before going on, "I strongly recommend, on my own honor, that he be commissioned into the regiment without delay."
> 
> Treville couldn't say who was more shocked: himself or Athos.


	16. Be the One to Light the Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Fifteen: Thimblerig, Lady_Neve, HLN, and Scarlett77

_And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.  
_ _**Ecclesiastes 4:12** _

* * *

_May 8, 1625  
_ _Road to Paris_

* * *

Porthos didn't loosen his hold on Aramis when the man's grief started to slowly quiet. He didn't pull away when his breathing steadied and his shoulders stopped shaking. He didn't relax his one-armed embrace until Aramis actively started to shift away. Only then did Porthos sit back onto his own heels, letting Aramis sit back on his. But he kept a steadying hand on the marksman's shoulder, and noticed that Athos had not removed his touch either.

Aramis' eyes were closed and he was taking slow, steady breaths.

Then, with a deep inhale and equally deep exhale, Aramis opened his eyes and looked straight at Porthos.

"I hit you," he stated abruptly.

Porthos blinked, shocked, and suddenly felt the sting of the cuts on his face. Of all the things he'd expected Aramis to say after what had just happened,  _that_  had not been one of them.

"Yes, you did," was all he could manage to reply.

"It was actually quite impressive," Athos spoke up above them, voice dry, but Porthos could  _hear_  the smirk in the words even if the man's face was stoic.

"He caught me my surprise," Porthos found himself defending.

"Even so," Athos shrugged dismissively, leaving Porthos sputtering.

Then, to his surprise – and perhaps as was Athos' intent – a breathy, weak chuckle rose from the man kneeling in front of him.

"That's the second time you've complimented my combat skill, you know," Aramis directed up at Athos with a weaker version of his old, pre-Savoy smirk – weaker but  _genuine_. "If you think me that fascinating, I can give you some lessons."

Porthos stared in amazement as the weak smirk grew in strength before his eyes when Athos scoffed.

"I've been trained by only the best instructors since I could hold a stick," the other man boasted, but the wry twist to his tone had Porthos grinning.

"Well if someone comes at me with a stick, you'll be the first I come to for instruction, then," Aramis shot back.

Porthos snorted a chuckle and pushed to his feet, finally loosening his hold on Athos' wrist and reaching to haul Aramis up to his feet.

"Come on," Porthos urged. "We're only half a day from Paris now. If Treville's come looking for us we need to be on the road to meet him or he'll pass us by."

Aramis nodded his agreement and, after a moment more of hesitation, withdrew from both Athos and Porthos' hold completely. He was still for a moment, seeming to steady himself now that he was out of their supporting hands. But then he reached down to retrieve Porthos' stolen sword and the abandon pistol. He held the sword out to Porthos hilt first. When he took it, Aramis just stared at him for a long quiet moment, his expression unreadable. Then the marksman granted him a small, warm smile and started past him, leading the way back towards their camp.

"I should make the two of  _you_  share a horse this time," he called over his shoulder. "It's only fair, really."

Athos and Porthos shared a look, and then hurried after him, both determined to be the first into the saddle so they had the more comfortable ride.

* * *

The first thing Treville thought when he saw the two horses approaching them on the road was that one of the men riding was very oddly shaped.

But as they drew closer, he realized it was  _two_  men atop the horse, not one, which accounted for the odd silhouette.

Drawing closer still, Treville recognized the man riding next to them.

And then all he could really process in that moment was relief.

 _Aramis_.

"It's them," he announced to Cornet, Gaston, and the two cadets who had ridden with him.

They nudged their horses faster, eager to close the gap between them and their two wayward men. Though the identity of the third was still a mystery.

As both companies finally met and drew their horses to a stop, Aramis offered him a weary grin in greeting.

"Captain," he hailed with a formal nod.

Treville scanned what he could see of the marksman's body. His face was covered in grime and dirt, his shirt was bloody and torn at the shoulder and covered in more dirt and sweat. There was a bulk of bandages hidden beneath the soiled fabric, but he seemed steady in his saddle.

Satisfied, Treville turned his attention to the two men sharing a horse.

Porthos was behind, looking weary, but fit enough. He had cuts on his face, but they'd obviously been cleaned and tended. The man before him was a stranger, but held himself with noble bearing that spoke of formal upbringing.

"And you are?" Treville asked gruffly, doing his best to mask his own relief and lingering worry.

"Athos," the stranger introduced, dipping his chin in greeting.

"Treville," he replied curtly. "Captain of the King's Musketeers." He then turned his attention to his two men. "Your horses came back without you. We feared the worst."

"We've quite the report for you, Captain," Porthos answered with a grim look.

"And I'll hear it in full," Treville responded, "once we've gotten back to Paris and the three of you have been seen to by Henri."

Aramis grimaced a little, likely having had his fill of Henri's care over the last weeks. It was nothing against Henri, Treville knew. Aramis was just a notoriously poor patient.

"Aramis  _first_ ," Porthos demanded lowly, shooting a look at the marksman that earned him an eye roll, but no real objection. "He's already tended the both of us."

Treville arched an eyebrow, thinking of the long hours Aramis had spent studying with Henri in recent weeks. An ironic twist, really, that the one who so often rejected treatment was now bestowing it on others.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Treville wondered sarcastically. Aramis always had a tendency to care for others before himself. "Let's get going, then," he prompted, turning his horse around on the road. The others did the same and soon they were all moving together back towards Paris.

Treville had to fight the urge to look over his shoulder to study Aramis as they rode. Something had changed in the time since he and Porthos had left on this mission. Something beyond them picking up a new companion, at least.

It hit him suddenly and he realized that he should have noticed it from the start.

Aramis had stopped hiding.

The mask, so firmly held in place in the weeks since Savoy, was gone.

There were no more fake smiles, no overly cheerful words and hollow laughter. He was no longer trying to hide his sorrow and suffering, but neither was it threatening to shatter him beneath its weight any longer. He had found his way back to solid ground. It had been Porthos, he was certain, and perhaps even a bit of this stranger, Athos, as well. More than once since they had been found, Treville had seen all  _three_  of them exchange telling glances. Athos was a part of whatever had happened. How big of a part remained to be seen.

But either way, Aramis had done it without Treville.

It had been his hope, one he'd feared would not be realized.

It made him so fiercely proud, even as it broke his heart.

* * *

The three men who stood before Treville's desk looked far better than the three whom he had met on the road into Paris.

They were cleaner, for one, and fed.

Now the time had come for their report.

Aramis stood in the middle, flanked on either side by Porthos and Athos. They stood so close together that a minor shift by any of them would have their shoulders brushing. All three of them looked steady and determined.

"Well?" Treville prodded. "Care to explain why two frantic horses stampeded their way into the Garrison last night with no riders?"

"We were ambushed," Aramis revealed bluntly.

"And abducted," Porthos added.

Treville looked at each of them as they spoke, and then settled his gaze on Aramis. The marksman was staring steadily back at him, his dark eyes serious.

"They were led by a man named Luc, who in turn was being paid to deliver Musketeers," Aramis went on.

Treville felt a chill glide down his back.

"Delivered to who?" he asked. But he knew if Aramis had the answer he'd have given it already.

The marksman shifted his weight, gesturing vaguely with his hand.

"We don't know. And if Luc knew, he didn't say."

"And where is this man?" Treville demanded, fearing their only lead was dead.

Aramis looked away then, as if ashamed, but then resolutely met his gaze again.

"He escaped."

" _We_  escaped," Porthos corrected sharply, sliding a scolding glance at Aramis. "There wasn't any way to take him with us and still get away."

Treville shifted his gaze over each of them. Aramis still looked frustrated, as if he thought it a personal failure that he hadn't brought this 'Luc' back for questioning. Porthos looked at him challengingly, as if silently daring Treville to scold them for it. And the third man, Athos… He just stared on impassively.

"And you?" Treville demanded of this stranger. "Where do you fit into this?"

"Merely a concerned citizen," Athos replied dispassionately.

"Athos risked his life to rescue us," Aramis interjected, taking a small step forward. "He witnessed our capture and pursued to where we were being held. He then infiltrated Luc's base and did his best to get us out."

"But he failed," Treville realized with an arched brow.

"That was my fault," Aramis defended firmly, "not his. He acted with bravery and honor, with the very qualities that stand at the heart of the Musketeers. Despite his lack of military experience," Aramis shifted a questioning glance at Athos and waited for the confirming nod before going on, "I strongly recommend, on my own honor, that he be commissioned into the regiment without delay."

Treville couldn't say who was more shocked: himself or Athos.

The stranger's eyes went wide and his jaw slackened a bit in shock as he snapped his head around to stare at Aramis.

"You trusted my opinion on such things once," Aramis went on, speaking to Treville, "I ask you to trust me one last time."

Treville glanced at Porthos, who nodded resolutely in agreement, barely fighting down a smile. Then he glanced at Athos, who was still looking stunned. Finally, he returned his gaze to Aramis, the last of his original Musketeers, who had always embodied everything they stood for, who knew better than anyone what kind of heart it took to be a Musketeer, who had that heart himself.

"I'll have Tristan put him through the paces in the morning," he decided. "If he proves worthy, I will accept your recommendation."

"I'm no soldier," Athos pointed out with a frown.

"A triviality," Aramis waved a hand dismissively. "I've been a soldier for years and so has Porthos. We'll teach you what you need to know in that regard. As for everything else? I know you can ride a horse, engage in close combat, and wield a sword. I can only assume you know how to fire a musket as well?"

Athos nodded, eyebrow arched dryly.

"Then if the only objection you have is not knowing the ins and outs of soldiering, that's hardly reason to refuse."

Treville watched the two men stare at each other, eyes locked in silent conversation. Whatever Athos saw there, it seemed to reach past whatever doubts he had. The other man's shoulders squared slightly and he glanced at Porthos, who nodded firmly in encouraging agreement.

Then Athos turned to face Treville and dipped his head slightly.

"It would be my honor," he accepted formally.

"Then it's settled," Treville declared. "Report to the yard after breakfast tomorrow. As for this Luc and his collecting of Musketeers, I'll bring the matter to the king and discuss a course of action. If someone is offering a bounty on Musketeers, he needs to be found and stopped."

The three men before him all exchanged glances with each other, as if having a silent conversation.

"I suppose  _you_  all want to be involved in the investigation," he surmised knowingly.

"It's only fair," Porthos rumbled. "They did kidnap us and steal our uniforms."

"And our boots and doublets," Aramis added with a scowl. "And their swords," he nodded his head towards the other two men. "Though Porthos and Athos  _did_  steal two of theirs in return."

"And yet you still have your own?" Treville wondered curiously, noticing the familiar weapon sheathed at Aramis' waist.

"Ah,  _yes_ ," Aramis shifted uncomfortably and slid an unexplained glance at Athos. "I didn't have mine with me when they attacked. Athos recovered it and returned it to me."

Treville frowned. This issue of Aramis and his sword would need to be settled, sooner rather than later. But it was a problem that could wait for tomorrow at least.

"The three of you are dismissed," he announced. "Get some rest."

He waved a hand towards the door to urge them out.

Athos and Porthos immediately turned, but for the space of a breath, Aramis hesitated. His familiar dark gaze met Treville's, and for a moment Treville thought Aramis would demand the truth. He thought the young man would insist Treville stop treating him like he was just any other soldier. He thought he might demand to reclaim his place as Treville's right hand.

But then Aramis lowered his gaze, retreated a step and turned to follow after his comrades without another backwards glance.

Treville sat back with a weary sigh and wondered why he felt so disappointed.

He had done this, enacted this change. But knowing that did not make losing the relationship he'd had with Aramis any easier to accept. But he was doing this to protect Aramis, and that was what he had to hold on to. It would get easier to look him in the eye and hold his tongue, now that Aramis was on the mend; now that he had accepted Porthos at his side and latched onto this Athos.

Savoy was put behind them as best it ever could be. It would fade to memory with time and be all but forgotten.

Treville alone would continue to carry the burden of its truth.

* * *

Porthos blew out a slow, low breath as he took in their destination.

The field of crosses before them felt charged with some sort of unnatural energy, as if the dead were here with them. After the fascinating spectacle of watching him reunite with Esmé back in the stables, Aramis had led them here.

Athos moved in his saddle at Porthos' left, apparently no more at ease than he was. They both looked to Aramis, who for a moment, looked frozen in time. He sat in his saddle, staring out over the crosses with a faraway look in his eyes.

Porthos shifted, wondering if he should try to draw him back or just leave him be. But then, with a deep breath, Aramis moved, sliding from his saddle, and started forward, leaving Esmé untethered.

Porthos dismounted to follow, but, not trusting Fort nearly as much, he wrapped the reins around a post. Next to him, Athos was doing the same with his own borrowed horse – Porthos thought it might have been the one called Roger.

They both silently followed after Aramis as he wove his way through the crosses until he reached the furthest row. He turned to face the freshest graves and tugged his hat from his head, pressing it tightly to his chest.

With a shared glance, Porthos and Athos took their places on either side of him.

For many moments they stood in silence, taking in the sight of twenty mounds that shouldn't have been there. The greatest tragedy in the Musketeer's young history and hopefully the greatest tragedy it would ever know.

"I've not been here-" Aramis' soft voice broke the silence around them. "I wasn't…" he paused to swallow thickly. "I couldn't bring myself…" He shook his head, trailing off.

"They would understand," Porthos assured quietly. "You're here now."

He saw Athos nod silently in agreement.

Quiet fell again, but it did not last long.

"I don't remember much," Aramis revealed quietly. "I've only pieces of it really. Bits of memory, some clear, some not." He reached to touch the scar on his temple. "It's coming back, I think – bits at a time, like with…like with Marsac."

Porthos felt an instinctive flare of anger at the mention of the deserter's name.

"I don't know yet if that's a good or a bad thing," the marksman admitted quietly. "Some things I would rather not remember." His gaze scanned over the grave markers now, dark eyes haunted with memory. "I remember Remy and Michel," Aramis continued solemnly, voice thick. "They died in my arms."

"Is that why you took up battle medicine?" Porthos wondered softly.

"I won't ever feel that powerless again," Aramis insisted. "I can't."

Before Porthos could muster a response, Aramis went on.

"But I would still hate Marsac if I hadn't remembered the truth of how he saved me," Aramis murmured. "Hate he did not deserve."

Porthos clenched his jaw, biting back an instinctive retort.

 _He_  still hated Marsac. No matter what he had done to try and save him, in the end he had left Aramis behind. He had left him to  _die_. He hadn't even sent back help. He had just  _left_.

Aramis was too forgiving, but that had never been Porthos' strength.

Athos shifted and then produced a flask from his doublet, offering it to Aramis.

"I've found this helps," the soon-to-be Musketeer explained.

The marksman gave him a glance of surprise and then took the flask with a grin.

"At least we know what you'll be good for," he teased before taking a drink. But when he lowered the flask and offered it back to Athos, his eyes lowered with it and his countenance seemed to grow more somber.

Without a word, he sank to one knee, loosely curling his fingers into the dirt over the nearest grave.

" _Nunca olvidaré, mis hermanos,"(I will never forget, my brothers,)_  he whispered to the graves.  _"Nunca les dejaré en el olvido." (I will never let you be forgotten.)_

Porthos reached out and firmly grasped his shoulder. He didn't know what Aramis had said, but he had a feeling he hadn't been meant to. Those had been words between Aramis and his fallen brothers alone.

Athos drifted closer but seemed hesitant to do more than hover.

Porthos squeezed the shoulder beneath his hand.

"When their ghosts come back to haunt you and you can't remember what's real and what isn't," he began warmly and seriously, "and you start feeling like you're alone again, just remember one thing:  _I'm_  here, Aramis."

"As am I," Athos added quietly, a tentative hand finally reaching out to lightly touch Aramis' other shoulder, whether out of his own wariness or concern for the healing wound there Porthos couldn't tell.

Aramis' head remained bowed and his fingers tightened in the loose dirt. Porthos watched him clutch at something through his shirt and then he whispered a few more words too low for Porthos to even make out.

He stayed there, bowed over the graves, for a long time. There were no tears, no heaving shoulders – just silence and reverence.

Finally, Aramis drew in a deep breath and let it out, returning his hat to his head. Then he pushed back to standing and turned to face his two companions, dislodging their hands only to wrap his own around each of their shoulders.

"I lost myself," he told them, "after Savoy." But then he grimaced. "No, not 'lost'…I  _hid_  myself," he corrected, sending a meaningful look to Porthos. "But you brought me back into the light," he held Porthos' gaze for a long moment, then shifted a glance at Athos, " _both_  of you. You restored my faith, each in your own ways." He smiled at Athos. "You reminded me that honor can still be found in the hearts of men, even strangers. And  _you_ ," he turned the smile onto Porthos, "gave me faith in brotherhood once more; the strength to trust in it when I wasn't sure I ever would again."

Porthos felt his throat tighten and reached up to wrap his hand around the one Aramis had on his shoulder.

"I hold you both as brothers in my heart, now and for all my days and even into death," Aramis pledged. He squeezed their shoulders warmly and met each of their gazes one more time. "Thank you,  _mes fréres, (my brothers,)_  for drawing me out of the darkness."

Porthos could only manage a nod, swallowing thickly. He didn't even spare a glance to take in Athos' reaction. This moment, and all it meant, was too important to him.

Aramis had called him 'brother' before Savoy, as he had called all Musketeers 'brother.' But since that night, since his return, he had not heard Aramis offer that endearment to anyone, not once. Not until now.

Porthos watched Aramis shift a look at Athos.

"I meant what I said to Treville," he told the other man. "I have been a Musketeer since their founding day. I know well what kind of heart it takes to wear that uniform. I see that heart in you, whether you see it in yourself or not."

Porthos frowned, wondering what insight Aramis had gained about Athos that he had not. Though, admittedly, Porthos had been far more focused on the brother he already had over these last days than on the brother he  _might_  have. That, and Aramis had a gift for reading people, for seeing into their hearts. Porthos' gift – in his youth at least – had always been more focused on seeing into their pockets.

"And don't worry about tomorrow. Tristan is a tough judge, but a fair one," Aramis went on. "They won't be using sticks, mind you, but I trust you'll prove your worth regardless." The teasing light in Aramis' eyes and mischievous quirk at the corner of his mouth had Porthos grinning. Athos, too, it seemed was not immune. Though his expression didn't change, something in his eyes seemed to chuckle in amusement.

"I will honor the faith you've placed in me," Athos pledged. "And I will honor the title of 'Musketeer' for as long as I bear it."

That vow, spoken over the graves of the fallen, seemed to carry an even greater weight. Porthos felt his own posture straighten as he, too, silently promised to do the same. Aramis nodded solemnly, squeezing Athos' shoulder.

"I know you will," he assured. "As honored as we will be to have you counted among us."

Aramis slid a glance at Porthos before looking back at Athos. The request, though silent, was easily read. Athos gave him a nod and then moved away, angling back towards the horses.

When they were alone, Aramis sighed and met Porthos' gaze squarely.

"Words don't often fail me," he started quietly, "but I'm struggling now to find the words to thank you for all you've done for me, all you've  _been_  for me. Simple words don't seem able to measure up to what you deserve."

"Aramis…" Porthos shook his head in denial. Aramis owed him nothing as far as Porthos was concerned, nothing but brotherhood. "You don't have to say anything."

"But I do," Aramis countered with a warm grin. "You deserve to hear those words, even if they prove far too inadequate."

Porthos drew in a deep breath and let it out, then nodded for Aramis to continue.

Aramis shifted, bracing a hand on the stock of one of the pistols on his belt. He looked down at his boots for a long moment before taking a breath and raising his gaze to meet Porthos'.

"From the moment I met you, I knew that ours would be a brotherhood to rival all others. There was something about you, something I could not quite explain, but it was just… _there_. Being around you felt familiar and comfortable in a way I had not felt since I was a child. Our friendship felt like…"

"Home," Porthos interjected softly, smiling when Aramis' gaze lit with understanding.

"You felt it too," the marksman realized.

Porthos nodded.

"Of course I did. How could I not?" he replied with a helpless shrug.

Aramis smiled warmly in response. But then the grin faded and a serious, weighted expression stole across his face. "After what happened with Marsac, after what he did…" Aramis shook his head and looked away.

Porthos reached out, wrapping his hand around Aramis' shoulder.

"He was a brother to me, or I thought he was." Aramis brought his gaze back up to Porthos. "I would have done anything for him. I would have  _died_  for him. The realization that he would not do the same…" Aramis clenched his jaw, eyes shining. "It felt like a betrayal."

"It was," Porthos pointed out quietly, but Aramis went on as if he hadn't spoken.

"It became a poison _._ " Aramis pressed a hand against his chest. "How could I ever trust in such a thing again if I couldn't even trust him? I was afraid, Porthos," he admitted. "I was afraid that you would betray me, too. And in that fear, I was not the friend and was most definitely not the brother you deserved. I took my anger out on you, I pushed you away, I was cruel."

Porthos drew in a breath to disagree, but Aramis held up a hand to stop him.

"I was," Aramis argued firmly. "And for that, I am deeply sorry. That you remained so steadfast through it all…" Aramis shook his head as if he could not fathom how Porthos had done it.

Porthos tried to shrug it off, but Aramis shook his head sharply, reaching out to tightly grip Porthos' shoulder.

"You were the only one, Porthos," he reminded firmly. "The  _only_  one to look past what I wanted everyone to see. You were the only one who was not content to let me hide. You looked past the anger and beyond the spite. If not for you, I would still be lost."

"I knew you were worth it," Porthos replied. "Just as you said, I knew it from the moment we met. You and I? We were meant to be brothers. I was never going to give that up without a fight."

"I thank God for that," Aramis replied fervently. "I let what Marsac did poison everything in my life. I thank God that you proved strong enough to stand against it."

"After what he did, I didn't blame you," Porthos assured. "I was frustrated, yes, but I understood."

"And now even that has been proven false," Aramis replied with a sigh. "I hated him for what he did before I knew the truth of it. Now…I feel as if there is a debt I cannot repay."

"He still  _left_ you, Aramis," Porthos pointed out. "He left you to die."

"He saved me first," the marksman countered firmly but quietly. "He saved  _me_  at the cost of his own future."

Porthos just shook his head and looked away. They would never agree over this. Aramis was too forgiving. He would rather take upon himself the blame for Marsac's betrayal than lay it at the deserter's feet.

"I would have died out there if not for him," Aramis insisted.

"Maybe," Porthos murmured, scanning his gaze over the crosses laid out before them. He wasn't convinced of that at all, really. Aramis had survived on his own for five days with nothing but scavenged rations and melted snow for water. He had fought a wolf and emerged the victor.

Porthos knew, with near certainty, that Aramis had survived because of  _himself_ and not because of Marsac.

"What matters to me," Porthos sighed, pulling his gaze back around to Aramis, "is that you survived and that you've found your way back."

Aramis softened, the defensive air in his posture fading.

"You both brought me back," he said, looking over his shoulder to where Athos was having some sort of stare down with Roger, "but you," he looked back at Porthos, "most of all."

Porthos smiled, but Aramis wasn't done.

"I heard you," he revealed quietly, something soft and warm in his gaze, "in Savoy, after you pulled me from the snow. I don't…" Aramis furrowed his brow as if searching for something in his mind, "remember what you said, but your voice…" he closed his eyes, as if drawing on the memory, "was always there, keeping me anchored."

Porthos felt his chest tighten, his own memory of those long hours trying to warm Aramis from his nearly-frozen state still quite clear to him.

"I wanted you to know you weren't alone," he told him quietly.

Aramis' eyes welled briefly and he smiled.

"I shall never doubt that again," he vowed.

Porthos reached out and gripped his shoulder firmly.

"That's all I wanted – for you to trust that, to trust  _me_."

"I do," Aramis assured. "And because I do, I know that I can continue to find my way back. I know it won't be easy, that I've still a long road to travel," his hand skittered up through his hair restlessly, "but with you at my side I finally feel as if I've got the strength to do it."

"You don't  _need_  me," Porthos assured. "You're strong enough without me. But I will be here, at your side, regardless."

Aramis smiled warmly and fully and Porthos couldn't help but return it.

"We've kept Athos waiting long enough," Porthos commented, hooking an arm over Aramis' shoulders and pulling him back the way they'd come. "He looks as if he's just lost an argument with that horse."

Aramis snorted, letting Porthos drag him along.

"Ah, Roger. I tried to warn him – a mind of his own, that one."

"Which one?" Porthos asked with a chuckle.

"What was it you told me about horses and masters?"

Porthos laughed.

* * *

Athos resolutely refused to give Roger the satisfaction of returning the stare he  _knew_  the horse was leveling at him. Instead, he watched Aramis and Porthos make their way back towards him.

He hadn't been offended when Aramis had asked him to leave – silent as the request was. There was a history between the two Musketeers, one Athos wasn't a part of. He had been surprised Aramis had even invited him along on this expedition.

Aramis had been doing that a lot over the last several hours – surprising him.

Athos had been stunned when the young Musketeer had all but demanded that his captain commission Athos on the spot. The recommendation had come from nowhere. Aramis hadn't even discussed it with him.

He was no soldier, had no training in such things. He was good with a sword, yes, but what sort of qualification was that when it stood alone?

But…if Aramis was to be believed, it  _didn't_  stand alone.

" _I know well what kind of heart it takes to wear that uniform. I see that heart in you, whether you see it in yourself or not."_

Such a pledge, from a man who had suffered so much loss and betrayal, was…resounding.

Athos had not known Marsac, and he likely never would, but he hated the man. He hated him for ripping apart the foundation of Aramis' beliefs about the brotherhood he obviously held close to his heart. He hated him for proving himself a coward and fleeing a battle he should have fought in, and worse, fleeing the consequences of that cowardice. But most of all, he hated him for doing to Aramis what the man would  _never_  do to anyone else.

He had abandoned him, left him behind to die.

Aramis, who, on his knees with tears in his eyes, had claimed that he would have died for his brothers.

What kind of man could walk away from a heart like that? What kind of man could sentence a man like Aramis to death?

No man Athos ever wanted to know.

Aramis had surprised him once more by inviting him along to visit the final resting place of his comrades, and further still by allowing him to bear witness of his private moment of grief.

But the greatest shock Aramis had delivered was claiming Athos as a brother.

Athos had never known a man who could open his heart so willingly, who could accept a stranger with such abandon. Aramis, who was still suffering from the betrayal of one and the loss of so many, had welcomed –  _dragged_  – Athos into the fold.

No, he had never known a man like Aramis.

Athos lifted his chin in greeting as the two Musketeers drew closer, shifting to mount Roger.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?" Aramis asked as he ducked out from Porthos' arm and strode up to his horse.

Esmé was her name, according to Porthos, and if her enthusiastic – and somewhat scolding – greeting of her master earlier was anything to go by, she was more of a character than Roger. The rapid exchange of Spanish and horse noises had been quite a spectacle. But then, with an apple and some soothing words, all had apparently been forgiven.

"I rented a room when I was in Paris before," he replied.

"Well, you're welcome to stay at the Garrison if you wish," Aramis offered. "There are plenty of beds and Serge's food is…filling."

There was a curious exchange of grins between Aramis and Porthos that had Athos' eyebrow arching warily.

Aramis swung up into his saddle and Porthos mounted his own horse just as fluidly next to him.

Athos hesitated. He would be able to find another room to rent with little trouble. But suddenly the idea of spending the evening alone – an outcome he'd sought with tenacity over the last months – seemed less appealing.

He looked from Aramis' quirked brow and questioning smile to Porthos' open and welcoming expression.

And suddenly Athos realized it wasn't just Aramis who pulled at him.

It was both of them. Aramis and Porthos together tugged at some forgotten part of his soul. Seeing them together had him longing for the type of brotherhood they shared – the brotherhood he had lost when Thomas had died.

A wave of sadness and self-hatred flowed through him and had his hand fighting the urge to retrieve the flask from his doublet. Because where thoughts of Thomas started, thoughts of  _her_ always followed.

She would come to him tonight, her memory haunting him. He would turn to drink, as he always did, to try and silence her. Would they still want him around then? When they saw him lost in darkness? Would Aramis, who was still fighting his way free of his own kind of darkness, even be ready to deal with it?

Something of his inner conflict must have shown on his face because the other two men exchanged a surprisingly knowing look before facing him again.

"Athos," Porthos called with a huff, "stop worrying so hard."

"I can hear your self loathing thoughts from here," Aramis added with a smirk. "What are you so concerned about?"

Athos frowned, not sure how to communicate his misgivings or even if he wanted to.

"It can't be the company," Aramis added cheerfully, "because who better could you find but us, anyway?"

Athos felt his lips twitch.

"Oh stop pretending to be thinking about it," Aramis harrumphed. "You're to be a Musketeer. You're stuck with us now."

"What a turn of luck," Athos replied with as little emotion as he could manage.

Aramis let loose an interesting little chuckle and Porthos narrowed his gaze.

"That's what I like about you," Porthos declared. "You've a way of speaking where I never know  _exactly_  what you mean."

"And you like that?" Aramis asked.

"Keeps things interesting," Porthos shrugged.

"Shall we, then?" Athos suggested, turning Roger away from the cemetery.

"What do you say to The Empty Scabbard for some dinner," Porthos asked them as he pulled Fort around to follow.

"They've a very good stew," Athos agreed, glancing back when Aramis didn't immediately join into the conversation.

He pulled Roger to a stop and glanced at Porthos, who stopped silently next to him. The large Musketeer's expression turned sad and vaguely pained as they watched Aramis sit silently atop his horse, staring out over the graves. His hat was pressed against his chest again and his shoulders were bowed with tangible sorrow.

But then he drew in a breath, slid his hat back over his short hair and nudged Esmé around.

"The Empty Scabbard, you say?" he asked as he joined them and they continued on together. "They've the best stew I've ever tasted."

* * *

"On his side so he doesn't choke on his own vomit," Aramis grunted as he and Porthos eased Athos onto the extra bed in Porthos' room. "Ah, there we go."

They stepped back with a tandem sigh.

"I'll get his boots," Aramis volunteered.

"I'll get the ash pale. Maybe we'll save the floor," Porthos replied.

Athos shifted with a groan, head tilting as if he heard something.

"Do you hear her?" he whispered, allowing Aramis' ministrations, or perhaps not even aware of them, as the marksman tugged at his boots.

Aramis shifted a look at Porthos, who only shrugged in return as he set the ash pale next to the bed.

"Do you hear her?" Athos asked again, eyes fixed on something beyond them. "She laughs…always laughing… Her smile… Do you hear her?"

Athos' fingers clutched at something around his neck.

"She's not real," Aramis murmured, quietly setting Athos' boots at the foot of the bed.

"She's here," Athos breathed out, eyes wet with tears yet to be shed.

"She's not," Porthos assured, reaching for the folded blanket at the foot of the bed and shaking it out.

Athos shivered even as Porthos spread it over him.

"She haunts me…" Athos' hand was white where it gripped the chain hanging from his neck.

"We'll keep her at bay," Aramis promised, pressing a comforting hand to the man's chest.

"Do you hear her?"

"Sleep, my friend," Aramis urged. "When you wake, she will be gone."

Athos shook his head miserably.

"She's never gone. She's always with me. Her laugh…her smile…green eyes…dead eyes." He turned his head slightly. "Do you hear her?" he whispered even as his eyes drooped. Aramis' voice caught in his throat even as he opened his mouth to offer another comfort. He heard echos of his own confession, spoken merely a day ago, mirrored in Athos' words. Aramis had sensed a kindred soul in him from the start, but now he wondered just  _how_  similar their broken souls might yet turn out to be.

"Sleep," Porthos soothed when Aramis remained silent.

"She is here," Athos breathed out as his eyes drifted closed.

Aramis lightly cleared his throat and braced his hands on his hips, watching to make sure Athos was truly asleep. Satisfied, he backed away from the bed and shifted a step towards the door.

He fully intended to go back to his own room. He even made it as far as the door. But the moment his hand found the handle, he found himself unable to actually open it.

He didn't want to go back to his own room. It had a weight to it. Having shared it with Marsac for the last three years had left it marked.

He didn't hate Marsac. The man had saved his life and had lost everything because of it. But…he had still left him. He had left him alone in a forest of dead brothers, and that had left its mark as well.

He didn't hate him, but he didn't want to go back to that room. He didn't want to look at Marsac's things. He didn't want to see his empty bed. He didn't want to spend one more night alone with his memories.

"I don't want to go back," he stated abruptly, still facing the door with his back to the room. "I don't want to go back to that room, Porthos."

"So," Porthos replied easily as there was a sudden sound of a something landing on stone, "don't."

Aramis twisted, finding Porthos' gaze over his shoulder. The other man was on his knees on the hearth, a pile of kindling in the fireplace. His dark eyes were open and warm as he looked back at Aramis.

"Stay in here," he suggested. "Help me keep an eye on  _him_." He tilted his head towards the lightly snoring Athos. "I'll even let you have my bed."

Aramis huffed an unsurprised laugh.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scolded, turning fully around to face him and leaning back against the door. "I'll take the floor." He preferred being near the heat of the fire anyway.

There was a quiet understanding in Porthos' gaze but he didn't say anything in response. Instead, he turned back to the hearth and started working to ignite a flame. Soon he had the kindling lit and Aramis ventured over to kneel next to him as Porthos slowly worked to build the fire.

"I didn't use to take a chill so easily," Aramis revealed quietly, leaning closer to the growing flames. "Frustrating really, because I've lived in Northern France for more than half my life."

"Where did you live before?" Porthos wondered.

"South. Near the border," Aramis explained. He doubted his sudden intolerance of the cold had anything to do with his place of birth, but it was easier to blame that than to admit to one more thing Savoy had broken in him. "My mother's family was from Spain originally. They moved to France when she was just a child."

"Your mother…" Porthos sounded hesitant, as if he wasn't sure he should be asking.

Aramis smiled warmly, remembering the sound of her voice, the gentle touch of her hand in his hair.

"She would have liked you, I think," he replied.

"'Would have'?"

"She died, a long time ago."

Porthos hummed in sympathy.

"Mine too," he admitted, "when I was just a little thing."

Aramis turned to look at his friend, smiling warmly.

"If she was anything like you, I would have been honored to have known her."

Porthos ducked his head shyly, but smiled nonetheless.

Aramis had a sudden memory then, of a time soon after he'd woken in the inn.

"She called me 'Mis," he revealed quietly. "She was the only one who ever did."

"I won't do it again," Porthos promised softly.

Aramis felt a soft smile tug at his lips.

"She was the only true family I had ever known," he went on. "Even amongst the brotherhood of the Musketeers, nothing has ever come close to the bond I shared with her. I've never allowed anyone else to call me that. I've never  _wanted_  anyone else to call me that. That was why I got angry with you, the day I woke in the inn."

"And now?" Porthos ventured slowly, curiosity and a bit of hope lighting up his gaze.

"Let's just say that I don't mind it so much coming from you."

Something flashed in Porthos' gaze, something like a memory. Aramis frowned.

"What?" he asked.

"You said that before," Porthos confessed. "Before the time  _you_  remember. You were awake and didn't remember anything that had happened and you were…"

"Not so angry," Aramis interjected, remembering Porthos explain this before.

"I called you 'Mis then and you said that same thing, that you didn't mind."

Aramis closed his eyes and turned away, feeling a stab of guilt.

"And then I bit your head off for it the next time," he realized. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Porthos forgave. "We're past it now, aren't we?"

"I suppose so," Aramis admitted.

"Then it's forgotten," Porthos insisted. "This warm enough?" he asked, gesturing at the fire.

Aramis nodded. When the dreams came, it likely wouldn't feel so, but for now, it was perfect.

Porthos pushed to standing and moved away, returning moments later with a pillow and a blanket.

"You have extra of these lying around?" Aramis teased as he pulled at his boots.

"I'd stolen the pillow from the other bed," Porthos admitted as he tossed it down to the floor. "And there's extra blankets in the chest there if you want more."

Aramis nodded his thanks and set his boots aside. He unclasped his belts next, resting his pistols next to each other near the pillow and sliding his dagger under it. His sword, for now, he set far out of reach.

By the time he was stretching out on the floor, back to the hearth and eyes on the door, Porthos was settling into his bed.

"Goodnight," Porthos offered quietly.

"Goodnight, Porthos."

* * *

Porthos wasn't sure what woke him, an instinct perhaps, or a sound that had already faded. No matter what it was, he found himself blinking up at the ceiling, knowing by the soft orange glow around him that the fire was still going.

He rolled in his bed, looking towards the hearth. Perhaps it had been a shifting log that had woken him.

His gaze never made it to the flames.

Aramis was shifting around restlessly, mumbling lowly in a mixture of French and Spanish.

Porthos sat up, glancing across the room to Athos, but he found the man unmoved from where he'd settled hours ago. Satisfied with that at least, Porthos slid off the bed as quietly as he could, dragging his pillow with him. He'd forgone a blanket due to the heat from the fire.

Aramis had rolled onto his back, his left arm curled up under his pillow and likely wrapped tightly around his dagger. Porthos dropped his pillow down on the floor and went to his knees.

He hesitated, debating whether to wake Aramis or just hope his presence was enough.

In the end, he wasn't willing to risk the nightmare escalating if he could stop it, so he touched a gentle hand to Aramis' shoulder and caught the attacking dagger mid swing.

"Easy," he murmured. "It's me. It's Porthos."

Aramis blinked blearily at him, but his gaze was more aware than it usually was when he woke from the deep throes of a dream.

"P'thos?"

"I'm here," he assured. "Roll over." He punctuated the command with a gentle nudge.

Still only half-awake, Aramis complied, rolling to face the fire. Porthos stretched out behind him, grabbing his pillow and folding it under his head before pressing his back to Aramis' – hip to shoulder.

"Porthos?" Aramis said again, sounding a bit more aware.

"Did you think I didn't notice?" Porthos challenged quietly. "When we slept like this in the forest you didn't dream. I'm willin' to see if it works a second time. Are you?"

"But your bed…"

"Will be just where I left it next time I go back to it."

Aramis was quiet for a moment.

"I have to see the door," he finally admitted.

"No, you don't," Porthos denied immediately. "Because I've got your back. Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

Porthos couldn't help his smile. There had been no hesitation, not even a moment of thought.

"Then go to sleep and trust me to guard your back."

It took a moment longer, but finally Aramis relaxed back into Porthos. The larger man forced himself to stay awake until he heard Aramis' breaths even out in sleep. Only then did he let himself sleep, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Sixteen
> 
> A lot of closure here but also a significant promise - one that get's broken five years later when Marsac returns and Athos and Porthos BOTH leave Aramis to deal with it alone. TRUST me, I've got a fic for that coming ;)
> 
> Coming in the conclusion of In the Darkness is Born the Dawn*
> 
> Now he would continue that tradition of duty and honor, but for the sake of France. For the sake of the two men standing behind him who had trusted and believed in him without cause.
> 
> He felt, inexplicably, as if his whole life had only ever been leading to this moment, that all that had happened had come about for a reason.
> 
> To bring him here.
> 
> To this moment.
> 
> To the Musketeers.
> 
> To Aramis and Porthos.
> 
> To the hope, once again, of a future.


	17. Bring You Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Sixteen: Thimblerig, Lady_Neve (x2), Scarlett77, HLN, wegoodandevilthings, vetcadet, Mademoisellesnowflake, tinadp, and issa
> 
> Thank you all for joining me on this journey! The song that inspired the chapter titles of this fic is "Brother" by NEEDTOBREATHE

 

* * *

_I have given my word that only death will take me from you.  
_ **_Philippa Gregory_ **

* * *

_May 9, 1625  
_ _Musketeer Garrison, Paris_

* * *

Athos woke to find himself half hanging off of a strange bed in an equally strange room. He pushed himself up with a groan and blinked around blearily, trying to discern where he was.

It wasn't until he saw two forms sleeping on the floor that things came together in his head.

Porthos and Aramis.

Though  _why_  Porthos was sleeping back-to-back with the other Musketeer when his own bed was only a few feet away remained somewhat of a mystery.

Athos then remembered Porthos ordering him to take his place at Aramis' back when they were in the woods and it was the Musketeer's turn to take watch. Athos hadn't bothered to question him on it then, not with Aramis still shaking with cold every few minutes.

But with the remains of a fire in the hearth, lack of heat didn't seem a viable reason for the sleeping arrangements this time.

Rubbing at his face to try and wake himself up a bit, Athos stood, nearly kicking over an ash pail filled with something he'd rather not identify. Though he suspected he had been the one to fill it, even if he didn't remember. He searched the room for a chamber pot and spotted it in the corner. He made his way over as silently as he could.

That done, he turned and searched for his boots.

He would have to purchase a new doublet immediately since Luc had stolen his. He would need a replacement sword and dagger as well, at least until he could retrieve his own from the mercenary's grasp. The dagger he had been less attached to, but the sword had been a gift from his father.

Movement near the hearth drew his attention just after he spied his boots at the foot of the bed he'd been sleeping in. He moved to retrieve them even as he glanced towards the two men on the floor.

Porthos was blinking at him slowly, obviously having just come awake. But instead of making any effort to rise, Porthos cast a glance over his shoulder towards Aramis and settled back down with a sigh. Athos must have been giving him a curious look because Porthos yawned and then explained.

"I'm not movin' till he's awake. This is the only way he can sleep without dreamin'."

And suddenly the sleeping arrangements made perfect sense.

As it turned out, they didn't have to wait long. Athos had only just finished pulling on his boots when Aramis stirred. He woke slowly, curling in tighter on himself before stretching out like a cat. Porthos took that as a cue and rolled up to sitting.

"All right?" Porthos asked quietly.

Aramis, having finally sat himself up, shifted one hand to rub at his eyes. Then he blinked at Porthos, looking surprised.

"Yes," he answered, seemingly stunned.

"No dreams," Porthos replied with a smile.

"The entire night," Aramis stated, still shocked. "I haven't…not since before Savoy…except for the other night, I haven't…" Aramis shook his head and visibly contained some swell of emotion. Then looked back at Porthos, awe and unfathomable gratitude in his eyes.

Athos watched Porthos reach out and settle his palm on the base of Aramis' neck, giving it a gentle squeeze, the touch drawing a grin in response. Athos, once again, felt like an interloper – an outsider who had no right to be sharing this moment.

But then, before he could decide if he should find an excuse to leave, Aramis was looking at him, a teasing grin pulling up the corner of his mouth.

"How is it we had to carry you back last night and yet now you don't look the least bit unwell? What sorcery is this?"

Athos quirked a brow. He felt  _quite_  unwell. His head was throbbing, his mouth tasted as if something furry had curled up and died in it, and his stomach felt one wrong move away from rebelling completely.

"It's a gift," he said instead of admitting to any of that.

"Yes, well, let's hope your  _gift_  carries you through the gauntlet Tristan's surely got prepared for you," Aramis replied as he reached for his boots.

A few minutes later, Aramis was ducking back out to find fresh clothes and a spare doublet in his own room. Porthos announced that it was getting too warm for leather anyway and shouted after Aramis that he should meet them downstairs.

That was where the marksman found them several minutes later.

Athos was about to take his first experimental bite of the porridge he'd been served – of which Porthos had already eaten half a bowl – when Aramis strode into the refectory with all the subtlety of a whirlwind.

He had an old, worn, brown leather doublet adorning his torso now. It looked softened with age and like it had seen more than its fair share of action. As Aramis drew closer, Athos could make out no less than  _three_  mended musket ball holes and at least two other sword or knife cuts that had been sewn up.

"I haven't worn this in ages," Aramis admitted as he stopped next to their claimed table and tugged at the hem of the leather.

Porthos snorted and jabbed a finger at where the leather was straining against the ties that held it closed over Aramis' chest.

"How  _old_  were you when you were fitted for this?" he asked.

"Eighteen," Aramis batted Porthos' offending hand away.

"Scrawny at eighteen, were you?" Porthos teased.

"I was  _not_  scrawny," Aramis defended, bracing his hands on his hips in offense.

It was then that Athos noticed it – a deep blue sash tied around Aramis' waist, resting beneath his weapons belt. It hadn't been there before, Athos was sure of it.

His attention of the new addition drew Porthos' focus and then they were both looking up at Aramis in silent question.

The marksman shifted, smoothing his hand over the blue fabric and clearing his throat.

"A piece of the cloak I had in Savoy," he explained quietly. When he raised his gaze to meet each of theirs in turn, there was moisture there that was blinked away a moment later. "I've an obligation to remember them," he said, holding Athos' gaze seriously. "And so I shall, in this and other ways, until I join them where they rest."

Porthos stood abruptly, drawing Aramis in for a hard, tight hug.

"A fitting tribute," Athos praised sincerely.

"They'd be honored," Porthos agreed as he drew back. He palmed the side of Aramis' neck and smiled. "Just make it a good long while before you join them, eh? Wear out dozens of these sashes before then."

"For you, my dear Porthos, anything," Aramis agreed with a warm grin. "Now," he clapped his hands together, "what's for breakfast? Porridge? Ah, Serge! You made my favorite!"

Then Aramis was gone, greeting the cook loudly and brightly.

"You fell in with the right one, there," Porthos chuckled. "He'll come back with fruit and cheese and he always shares."

"There's fruit and cheese?" Athos asked with a surprised blink. He hadn't noticed anything of the sort when he'd been handed his bowl.

"For Aramis – always." Porthos grinned. "Apparently it's all in how you ask."

* * *

Aramis leaned against the post holding up the balcony above him and held out the half eaten vine of grapes he'd been munching on to Porthos, who was sitting on a crate on the other side of the post.

"He's good," Porthos commented as they watched Athos spar with Aramis' borrowed sword, grabbing a few grapes.

"Good?" Aramis shook his head in wonder. "He's the best I've ever seen."

And he had seen some of the best. Thierry had been a master of the craft and a superb teacher. But even his skill wouldn't have stood up against the precision and excellence Athos now displayed. Aramis hadn't really noticed before. He'd been too busy getting lost in his own wounded and confused mind during the battles they'd fought together to pay any attention.

"His hand-to-hand, though?" Porthos tisked. "Gonna have to work with him on that."

Aramis nodded. Athos had proven much too restrained and…polite…to really excel in close hand-to-hand combat. Porthos, Aramis knew, was by far the best in the regiment at that particular skill. He had been bested by him enough times to know  _that_  with painful certainty.

Not that Aramis was a poor fighter by any stretch. He was lithe and  _quick_  and he wasn't afraid to fight dirty. That hardly mattered, though, when his opponent was large and  _strong_  and equally willing to do whatever it took to win. He  _did_  hold the dubious honor of having been the one to hold out against Porthos the longest. However, that particular bout had left him bruised and aching in more places than he wasn't.

Athos had proven a well-trained rider as well. His poise and posture in the saddle reminded Aramis of his own instruction in such things when he had first come to his father's house. His ability with a musket, while pale in comparison to Aramis' – though to be fair that tended to be the case with everyone – was more than adequate. Aramis was certain that Tristan would give Athos approval for commissioning. All that would be left, once this swordplay was done, was to make it official.

"All right," Tristan called suddenly, "that's enough."

The older Musketeer was shaking his head in awe.

"Reminds you of Thierry doesn't he?" Aramis commented with a grin.

Tristan glanced over at him and chuckled.

"Where did you find this one?" he asked, motioning Athos over towards Aramis and Porthos even as he made his own way in that direction.

"In an old house, amidst an army of mercenaries."

"Not one of them, I hope," Tristan teased.

"Well wouldn't that be a dramatic twist," Aramis chuckled, grinning at Athos as he joined them.

"I've no objections," Tristan reported, reaching out a hand to Athos. "Provided we work on your hand-to-hand, you'll be a prime fit for the regiment. And with this one's recommendation, I expect all that's left is the formalities." Tristan reached out and clapped Aramis on the shoulder. The musket ball wound, which Aramis had honestly forgotten was there, made itself remembered with a sharp wave of pain. Aramis embraced it and breathed it away with nothing more than a slight tightening of his jaw to give him away.

Tristan, thankfully, didn't notice. He was either too out of practice reading Aramis or he was too enamored with Athos. Porthos and Athos  _both_ , though, were eyeing him with varying degrees of speculative concern.

"Well then," Aramis cleared his throat and pushed off the post, "shall we?"

* * *

Athos wished Aramis had given him time to wash up – he  _had_  been exercising extensively all morning – before hustling him up to Treville's office. Both Tristan and Porthos were trailing after them, neither seeming any less excited than Aramis.

But as he found himself standing before Treville, solemnly repeating back to him the oath of the Musketeers, Athos found he didn't care at all that he smelled of sweat, horses, and gunpowder.

There was a reverence to the moment that he hadn't expected.

As he finished the oath and Treville officially named him a Musketeer, something in his soul lit for the first time in all his life. A piece of himself that had lain dormant came to life. A purpose he hadn't known he needed; a cause he hadn't known he believed in. He had spent his life living by honor and duty, for his own sake and that of his family's name.

Now he would continue that tradition of duty and honor, but for the sake of France. For the sake of the two men standing behind him who had trusted and believed in him without cause.

He felt, inexplicably, as if his whole life had only ever been leading to this moment, that all that had happened had come about for a reason.

To bring him here.

To this moment.

To the Musketeers.

To Aramis and Porthos.

To the hope, once again, of a future.

"It is an honor to welcome you into our ranks," Treville finished, retrieving a piece of curved leather from his desk. "Your uniform."

Then Aramis was there, giving him a wink and smile as he helped Athos strap the stiff, smooth leather pauldron to his right shoulder.

Then, without warning, the younger man pulled Athos into a firm, strong hug.

"Welcome,  _mon frére,"_ he whispered for only Athos' ears.

_My brother._

Something warmed in Athos' soul and he lightly returned the embrace. Before he could disentangle himself, there was a deep chuckle and then two strong, dark arms encircled both of them.

Aramis laughed, the sound bright and cheerful in Athos' ear.

He felt lighter, somehow, for having heard it.

"Alright, you three, that's enough," Treville's gruff admonishment held no bit of censure, but they obeyed and broke apart nonetheless. Aramis held Athos at arm's length and skated a hand over the new leather pauldron on his shoulder.

"Looks good," Aramis commented.

"A bit clean," Porthos added.

Aramis nodded gravely.

"We'll have to fix that. Can't be seen hanging around with someone so shiny and new."

"And  _you_  two," Treville interjected, drawing their attention.

Athos didn't bother resisting the urge to smirk when the captain –  _his_ captain now – held out two new uniforms to Aramis and Porthos.

"Since you lost your last ones."

"Stolen, actually," Aramis pointed out.

"There is a difference," Porthos agreed.

"And we'll get them back," Aramis vowed, suddenly serious and sincere. He held Treville's gaze for a long moment until the captain nodded.

"I know you will," he assured. "But until then, I can't have you running around out of uniform. So…" he shook the new pauldrons and Athos watched the two reluctantly take them.

"Looks like we'll all be shiny and new together," Aramis sighed, holding up his new pauldron for inspection.

"I can think of a few Red Guards who'd be useful to scuff them up a bit," Porthos commented as he grinned wolfishly.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Treville scolded sharply. "Get out of here, the three of you, before I come to regret the last several minutes."

Athos gave his new captain a formal nod of farewell and followed his new brothers out the door.

* * *

"Did you see it?" Tristan asked as he followed Treville out onto the balcony to look out over the yard.

Treville braced his hands on the rail and watched the three who had just left huddled together around the long plank table, a jumble of arms and hands as they worked together to get Aramis and Porthos strapped into their pauldrons.

"It's as if the last months hadn't even happen," Tristan went on. "He was smiling, joking. He was himself again."

"Not entirely," Treville disagreed quietly. Aramis' smiles were real again, though not as bright as they had once been. His eyes still carried a weight in them, a sadness and sorrow that would not soon fade.

But there was hope in them again. There was life. That spark that made Aramis  _Aramis_  had reignited, flickering behind the veil of Savoy and gaining strength every day.

"Porthos was the key, just like we hoped," Tristan concluded.

"He was part of it," Treville agreed, eyes drifting to the quiet and reticent man who had just become his newest Musketeer.

Porthos had played the larger role, no doubt. He had restored Aramis' faith in brotherhood, and thereby in the Musketeers. But Athos, he suspected, had restored his faith in the hearts of men.

Aramis had needed  _both_  of them, in the end, to come full circle from Savoy.

And that Treville had gained a worthy Musketeer – brought to him at the highest recommendation from one whose opinion he trusted above all others – made it all the better.

* * *

"I rather like this one," Aramis commented as he rotated his arm. "I like the etching… I might just keep this one when it's all over."

"What about your old one?" Porthos asked as he rotated his own shoulder, letting the leather settle more comfortably. He liked his new uniform as well, even if it  _was_  too smooth and shiny.

Aramis was quiet for a moment, contemplative and serious. When he finally answered, his voice was sincere.

"I think, perhaps, as this uniform symbolizes a new beginning for our dear Athos," he gave the new Musketeer a warm smile, "it can mean something of the same for me."

Porthos felt his chest tighten and he nodded. He understood the feeling. For as much as Savoy had signified a new start for Aramis, it meant something similar for Porthos. He had found his footing as a brother because of Savoy. He had found his place amongst the Musketeers at last.

"A new beginning for all of us, then," he decided. "The three of us, together, from this moment on."

Aramis' face lit up in a bright smile, more warming than the sun itself, and Athos' shoulders straightened even as a small curve turned up the corners of his mouth.

"All for one?" Porthos offered, holding out a hand, palm up.

Immediately, Aramis' hand clasped it and a moment later Athos' landed on top.

Then three voices rang out, melding into one.

"One for all."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn
> 
> Now I'm sure you noticed a few things. Loose ends! Loose ends everywhere! Luc got away and the mystery of who was 'collecting' musketeers is unsolved. We only JUST brought Athos in so we obviously need to see how he settles in. Aramis still can't really use his sword because of his PTSD. This will all be addressed in the direct sequel to this story! Yes, there IS a sequel! I can't say when it will arrive as I always finish fics like this before posting them - that way I can do these daily updates, but it will come eventually!
> 
> Thank you for joining me on this journey! I'll be around with the monthly challenges (hopefully) and with my The Good Soldier companion piece to kind of go hand in hand with this one. Until then, here is a summary of the coming sequel. I think many of you will be pleased ;)
> 
> Defined By Blood  
> As the newly formed Inseperables investigate a mysterious bounty put on Musketeers, they are led to a place Aramis hoped never to see again - the home of his father, Julien d'Herblay.


End file.
